


Handle With Care (This End Up)

by Bibliotecaria_D, Shibara



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Bubblewrap, Gen, Manipulation, Overlord's lips, Psychological Torture, Restraints, Vortex being Vortex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2017-12-04 01:40:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 102,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/705023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shibara/pseuds/Shibara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Decepticons are fed up with Vortex’s behavior. They call in the expert.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> IMPORTANT NOTE: This fic was not completely written. It is a proper fic until chapter 21, but chapter 22 is the outline and a few scenes of the story until its ending.
> 
> .
> 
>  **Title:** Handle With Care (This End Up)  
>  **Aft-In-Chief:** Shibara  
>  **Aft-Kicker:** Bibliotecaria_D  
>  **Warnings:** restraint, psychological torture/manipulation, Overlord's lips, and misuse of bubblewrap. Also, adapting an IDW characterization to G1.  
>  **Rating:** PG  
>  **Continuity:** G1 (ish)  
>  **Characters:** Vortex, Overlord, Decepticons  
>  **Disclaimer:** Hasbro owns the Transformers.  
>  **Motivation (Prompt):** _“What if Vortex had met Overlord?”_ \+ Bubblewrap

**[0 0 0 0 0 ]**   
**Part One**   
**[0 0 0 0 0 ]**

Life on Earth was strange, after the tense war-world that Cybertron had become. There were long periods of _nothing_ followed by brief periods of intense, hectic _everything._ The battles here cycled in a way they never had on their own planet. Back on Cybertron, the warfront had spanned entire hemispheres, and the fighting never stopped. There were always active hotspots and fortresses ready to launch major offensives. Stand-offs between battalions dug in on either side of contested areas could last years.

Here on Earth, there were two bases. _Two_. Neither really had room to quarter a battalion for three days, much less keep them battle-ready for longer than a week before cramped conditions got someone shot with friendly fire. There were no hotspots or fortresses or even recurring-action areas on Earth. There were raids, temporary outposts, and small-scale battles that were usually over before a local day had passed. 

If Megatron or Optimus Prime didn’t order it, action didn’t happen. Months could pass before the Decepticons showed up causing trouble somewhere or the Autobots snuck under the ocean to harass them preemptively. Especially in winter. Nobody wanted to leave their bases in winter. They’d tried fighting on ice once, and there’d been mechs falling left and right, slipping and sliding through Detroit. Never again!

The Decepticons stuck to the equator after the Detroit battle. Winter on Earth could go frag itself. Still, it’d almost been worth the chill and humiliation of skidding around just to have seen Optimus Prime plow through Megatron on _accident_. The Decepticon leader had slid at the exact wrong moment, and the big rig’s brakes were useless on ice. Also, Starscream unintentionally bowling for Minibots while trying to land on the freeway had totally been worth listening to him shriek while stuck upside-down in a snowbank afterward.

So things like winter limited the battle zones even further, lengthening the cycles, and that left Decepticons and Autobots alike with a lot of spare time. Everyone was on alert in case of attack, but ‘alert’ on Earth didn’t mean the same as on Cybertron, where venturing past the perimeter could get mecha sniped. There was a lot of unsecured, faction-neutral territory on Earth. The only perimeters that mattered were the ones surrounding bases and outposts, which left the rest of the planet to wander around on.

It was strange having that much freedom, suddenly. Paired with having a lot of between-battle time to spend doing whatever they wanted, it led to Autobots and Decepticons randomly showing up all over the planet. If neither side made a big deal about what they were doing, then it didn’t make them targets. In the lulls between attack and counter-attack, if one side didn’t go looking for trouble, the other side often let them be.

It led to the occasional weird incident, however. Skywarp and Thundercracker kept ending up in the Pacific islands, apparently engaged in volcano sight-seeing and sport-flying for unknown reasons. The Insecticons were on a quest to try all the local foods of every country they ended up in, which disturbed street vendors the world over. Oddly, New York City hot dog street vendors just shrugged and asked them what they wanted on their dogs, and the pizza joints mentioned having served stranger customers. Something about mutant turtles. 

The Constructicons had some sort of argument while in Egypt. Alarmed locals called for the Autobots when someone overheard Scavenger trying to persuade the others to let him bring the ‘lawn ornaments’ home to install near Darkmount. Since he seemed to be talking about the Great Pyramids, there was reason for concern, especially since he seemed so insistent on collecting the whole set. Scrapper actually looked relieved when the Autobots arrived to chase the Constructicons out of the country.

The Decepticon air ranks unofficially took over any human city with an air show going on, and the Autobots unofficially let them. The jets didn’t seem intent on causing trouble; they just liked watching the humans do air tricks, like indulgent university students attending a kindergarten class. If they were bored enough to stretch their own wings, they’d even show off a display or two of Decepticon parade formations for appreciative audiences. 

The Decepticons, in turn, looked the other way during the major car shows. Well, except for those Decepticons who appreciated a nice set of wheels. They joined the Autobots in the ogling during the car shows, because _whoa_ , could the humans design some sweet rims!

But that was off-duty. On-duty, there were only so many monitors in the Decepticon base that needed watching. There was base maintenance, of course, but that was mostly left to whoever was out of favor that week. Nobody liked getting sea water and fish in unmentionable areas, and that’s what base maintenance inevitably entailed. Even _inside_ the base, which was a mystery the Constructicons were still trying to solve. There was manufacturing energon from the tiny thermal stations and wind farms and whatnot that the Decepticons had installed around the globe, and guarding those hidden energy sources from Autobot interference. There was also transporting the energon back to the base or to the space bridge for shipping to Cybertron.

That still left a lot of Decepticons sitting around doing nothing during their duty shifts. Since that was a recipe for traitors and things getting blown up -- these concepts weren’t necessarily unrelated -- Megatron decided that his Earth forces could use some training. Mandatory combat training rotations were scheduled.

In the short term, that meant the Constructicons got a lot more work suddenly. In the long term, that meant the Decepticons on Earth were slowly being honed from deadly weapons of war into _really fragging scary_ deadly weapons of war. There was something about getting thrown about a training rink regularly that knocked the dull edges off before they got a mecha killed in battle. Live longer, learn more; go on to kill and repeat the cycle. 

Meaning that the battles got correspondingly more nasty. If the Autobots hadn’t been training just as vigorously over in the _Ark_ , the battles on Earth could have taken a turn for the fatal much more often. As it was, the troops on Cybertron were beginning to regard the forces on Earth with a fearful sort of awe. When Prime and Megatron had left Cybertron, they’d left with the best of their factions. What they were now was distilled down from that. The best combat abilities in the factions squared and shared.

That didn’t make the mecha being trained any saner. Case in point: Vortex.

Most Decepticons considered training with their own units normal, and training with Megatron a gruesome endurance test of walking through the Pit. There was a rash of traded duty shifts whenever the ex-gladiator and current Supreme Commander decided he wanted some sparring time of his own. He didn’t hold the habit of pulling his punches even during training, figuring that pain taught Decepticons not to make the same mistake twice. 

That was true, but mostly the mistake they learned not to repeat was sparring with Megatron. Unlike saner mechs, however, Vortex thought bodily injury was hilariously entertaining. He bounced into the training ring to face Megatron like it was adventure time. 

Megatron promptly put him through the floor. Literally; Bonecrusher had to extract him from the ceiling of the room below. 

Apparently, the loyalty program didn’t allow the Combaticons to attack their lord and master even during training. The best they could manage was dodging. That was okay, or so Vortex claimed. He’d had his fun trying to hold up his end of the fight for more than half a klik. That was what he told Hook when he woke up again, anyway. 

The surgeon stared at him for a long moment before shaking his head and declaring him as fixed as possible considering the obviously defunct state of his cerebral circuits. He immediately demanded the crazy ‘copter get out of his sight. 

The Combaticon took being forcibly ejected from the repair bay well. He hummed a little as he walked the halls, in fact. To him, it had been a wonderful day. All of it, from the light training in the morning (a.k.a., playtime with Blast Off) to the heavy training afterwards (a.k.a., introduction of face mask to floor). The night, too, was going rather pleasantly, what with all the little mechly interactions of being accused of insanity and so forth. He could hear the normal hum of conversations coming from the direction of the rec-room, and somebody was screaming in that direction as well. Ah, all the sounds of home. 

It had been a peaceful day, overall, and Vortex needed desperately to carve his name into that. Because peaceful was painfully overrated.

A day with such a good start _had_ to have a good ending. The ‘copter had to make sure of it. So after the light training (competitive shuttle groping), the heavy training (damaging the floor with his face), and a relatively peaceful refueling (the survivors would crawl back to their quarters eventually), he went for a walk through the _Victory_.

He hadn’t even been sure of what exactly he was looking for until he saw him: Breakdown. There was a twitchy Lamborghini loose in the halls. Tsk. Motormaster should know better than to let his resident paranoid out to roam. Who knew who’d stumble upon the poor little car?

The cream-colored Stunticon was walking briskly from a side corridor into the main hall and back again. He was clearly looking for something, and Vortex almost wondered what before deciding it was unimportant. What was important was that one of his favorite victims was out and about and unprotected, busily scanning the floor instead of keeping a look-out for a helicopter with a thing for tormenting him. Vortex felt his spark fill with warmth at the sight.

Breakdown looking for something translated into Breakdown not looking where he was going. His optics were scanning the floor nervously, back and forth. Vortex ghosted up on the Stunticon silently when the smaller mecha came down the hall from the side corridor again. The car’s optics were firmly locked on the floor. If he kept on going, just maybe four or five more paces --

_Bump._

Breakdown made a sound like a piece of metal rasping against concrete and jumped backwards, knocking his elbow against the nearest wall. He immediately turned, making sure his back was to it defensively.

Oh dear, now why would he do that? Vortex, full of concern for his fellow Decepticon, came closer to the smaller mecha’s trembling frame. To check if he was alright, of course. Defensive body posture and shaking hands surely meant that the Stunticon felt frightened, even threatened. Vortex would be an unsupportive teammate if he didn’t see if there was something he could do to help his fellow Decepticon in his time of need! 

If that meant he was backing Breakdown into the corner of the corridor one slow step at a time, then he most surely wasn’t doing it on purpose. Vortex, looming? Pshaw. Perish the thought.

The Lamborghini started violently when his retreat was cut off by the corner. He started blustering, right on cue. “Vortex. Watch -- watch where you’re going!” the ground-pounder spat with a slight rumble of those lovely specialized engines.

Vortex stared in silence at the nervous mech a few seconds beyond what was conventionally normal. Once the ground-pounder began fidgeting, the ‘copter dipped his helm toward him slightly as if he was confiding a secret. “Are you sure it’s here?” he asked quietly, one half of his visor flashing on and off in a knowing wink.

Breakdown looked at him, confused. “I -- What do you mean?” The hands he’d pressed to the walls curled a bit, the fingers relaxing slightly as hesitant interest stole some of the fear-tension from them.

“I mean, are you sure that you lost it **here**?” As he spoke, Vortex backed up a step, giving the Stunticon some space. It fostered the tiny hint of security, encouraged the interest, and really just lured the doomed mecha into his verbal trap. He lowered his voice a touch, making the car lean forward to follow him. “Are you sure it isn’t where you just came from? Have you looked there **properly**?”

Breakdown glanced back down the corridor with wide, uncertain optics before looking back at the Combaticon. “You don’t even -- “ He caught himself and straightened, pushing away from the wall to fold his arms and tip his chin up defiantly. “What makes you think I’m looking for something?”

The soft growl from the car’s engine revved subtly faster, betraying the Stunticon’s false bravado, and Vortex listened to the uneasy sound with satisfaction.

He _tsk-tsk_ ed with a small shake of his helm. “Breakdown, **of course** you’re looking for it. What makes **you** think **I** don’t know what you’re doing?”

The Combaticon took away the space he had given the trembling mecha, approaching him until their chest-plates almost touched. The Lamborghini stayed strong for a moment longer, but the taller, heavier Decepticon stared him down. After a klik, the car caved and edged away, back slowly pressing into the wall again. The revving climbed higher and higher, more noticeable by the second.

Vortex let him go, just watching. “By now, you should know that I **always** know, Breakdown.” The helicopter sighed wearily. ”Go on,” he flapped a hand dismissively, turning away, “keep looking. I’ll just go back to my quarters, so don’t bother letting me know when you **do** find it.” He flashed his visor over one shoulder. “Because I’ll already know, you know.”

With that, the ‘copter ambled off at a sedate pace in the direction of the Combaticon gestalt quarters. When he reached the first intersection, however, he turned left and stood just inside a maintenance drone closet to listen attentively. It usually took a bit more insinuation and threat for Breakdown to work his way into a full-blown panic, but this was Vortex‘s good day, after all. 

Less than a klik later, the whining of engines had built loud enough to be heard the length of the corridor. Vortex felt it grow steadily in volume and power as Breakdown sprinted back to his gestalt’s quarters, blindly seeking reassurance. The revving accelerated, and the accompanying jarring rattle through the metal of the floors and walls became a minor localized earthquake, and, yes, perfect. 

_’Right about... now,’_ Vortex thought, and with a _pop_ , the lights in the corridor burst.

Followed by the exasperated groans from mecha in the nearby rooms. Followed by Breakdown scrabbling on the Stunticons’ door, completely frantic. Followed by Motormaster angrily shouting.

In the complete darkness, Vortex listened to a chorus of curses in a dozen different voices. Nobody was happy, and everyone knew who to blame. They did so, in copious amounts of profanity and at high volume. Doors opened all along the affected corridor, spilling annoyed Decepticons out. Above all the yelling, the high pitched revving of a terrified engine continued, underscored by Breakdown’s whimpering and the awkward attempts of his gestalt-mates to calm him down.

Vortex chuckled, amused at the rapidly escalating conflict outside the Stunticons’ shared quarters. Eventually, somebody would get around to asking Breakdown why he’d panicked, but for now?

It had been a good ending for a good day. Going to the brig for it later? Totally worth it.

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 **[0 0 0 0 0 ]**  
 ** _The Aft End (Shibara speaks)_**  
 **[0 0 0 0 0 ]**

This story started during an aimless chat with Biblio. It was all lolz and hypothetical what-ifs and I think right before starting writing it, it was just that, a couple of paragraphs of crackyness and maybe some porn, if I’m not much mistaken.

Then it exploded into plot of some kind. We started thinking what would happen in a more logical light (as much as bubblewrap allows anyway) and stuff went from a self-indulgent, nonsensical, tiny ficlet to a self-indulgent giant monster of a character-driven fic.

It’s scary how much thought I have put on a story which involves bubblewrap as a key item, but I figure that more than that, it’s about behaviour. And that’s a sweet topic, imho.

Anyways, stuff happened. I wrote the first draft, Bibliotecaria_D wrote the awesome fleshing out and prettifying that makes this a fic instead of babbling, and we plotted horrible things for the characters together because there’s nothing like being bad people at Decepticon helicopters.

Oh, and now it doesn’t have porn anymore. I think.

**[0 0 0 0 0 ]**


	2. Chapter 2

**0 0 Part Two 0 0**

 

Shockwave sat patiently before his console. He’d assumed the status-update meeting with the Earth forces would last around a couple of breems. It was now well into its second cycle.

This was not the first time it had happened. On multiple occasions, Lord Megatron had needed to deal with things that popped up while the meetings were in progress. Generally small things, like urgent reports arriving or the odd fit of Starscreamian pique. As he had during those previous occasions, Shockwave simply waited. One did not walk off to find other work to do while one’s commander dealt with interruptions. It would be inexcusably rude, and such a dismissive gesture directed toward a superior officer could get a rude Decepticon executed. 

Besides, it gave Cybertron’s Guardian a window of opportunity to observe the political and military situation surrounding his commander. Being on Cybertron gave him an edge up on any power struggles in the Earth ranks, but at the same time, being on Cybertron put Shockwave out of sight and often out of mind. He could never pass up any opportunity to gather information or further secure his own position with Lord Megatron. So he patiently waited, and he listened closely.

This time, it seemed Onslaught had just arrived from somewhere, apparently summoned to Lord Megatron’s presence immediately upon arrival in order to be reduced to a melted pile of shamed armor plating by the Decepticon Supreme Commander. Lord Megatron took his time peeling thin metal strips off the Combaticon’s skidplate using his vocalizer alone. Shockwave watched and took idle notes on technique and particularly flinch-worthy phrasing.

“ -- completely useless to me if he can’t keep his fragging rotor blades off the rest of the troops. And **you** are just as pathetic if you cannot keep your scrap-waste team under control, Onslaught. How many slagging times has Vortex wound up that underclocked glitch -- ”

_‘Ah, Vortex,’_ Shockwave thought. This was most certainly not new, then. Onslaught’s gestalt had been troublesome to his leader since day one, and Shockwave could generally do next to nothing to aid him. He had pondered questioning the usefulness of the Combaticons, but logic dictated that their confrontational, belligerent separate personalities were more than made up for by Bruticus’ presence on the battlefield. That was more important to the war effort than however bothersome the combiner team seemed to be the rest of the time.

Yet as he waited for the Combaticon leader to be dismissed, Shockwave realized that he might actually be of some help in this particular instance. It would relieve Megatron of the burden of continually disciplining the unrepentant fraggers, and perhaps lead to the Supreme Commander bestowing some favor upon him. An opportunity to curry favor was not to be passed up.

Besides, Shockwave viewed the Combaticon leader’s lack of loyalty to the Decepticon Cause as basically offensive. Attempting to overthrow Lord Megatron? Fine. That was acceptable behavior for a subordinate in the Decepticon army. Starscream did that every other day, it seemed. However, the loyalty programming he had aided the screechy Second to install in the Combaticons ensured that they wouldn’t betray the Decepticon Cause by betraying Lord Megatron anymore. They had explained to the combiner team at great length -- admittedly, in order to grind in how deep the programming went -- that the team would now serve the Cause in the Supreme Commander’s name.

Direct violence tripped motor control errors; actively trying to attack Lord Megatron caused the Combaticons’ weaponry to deactivate, their limbs to go numb, and eventually triggered random tensile cable seizures if the stupid fools insisted on trying to continue. Seditious thoughts, on the other hand, caused a complete system reset. Violence was only to be expected, after all, but it was the resentment and outright disagreement that Lord Megatron wished to burn out at the root. It was simple to restrain physical violence in the ranks, but bringing mecha back to the Cause required much more...coercion. 

He’d thought that the logic had been clear, but Shockwave had seen the program logs. The Constructicons tracked how often it was triggered. This wasn’t bringing mecha _back_ to the Cause. This was dragging mecha with no belief to begin with kicking and screaming into the ranks. The Combaticons had absolutely no connection to the Cause other than that loyalty program. If they held any belief in it, they would hold at least some respect for its founder and leader. From the frequency the program had been activated, that wasn’t true. 

The violence-prevention protocols were rarely activated at all, but the thought censorship meant to direct the team back into the Cause continued to run above acceptable numbers. The activation frequency had tapered off as time passed, of course, but that was learned behavior as the Combaticons figured out how to dodge and block the program. That was the reason programmed loyalty didn’t last. On a long enough timeline, if the programmed mecha didn’t internalize the learned behaviors, it was possible to eventually work around enforced loyalty.

From observing their misbehavior, Shockwave could only conclude that the Combaticons were finding work-arounds instead of learning true loyalty. He held them in contempt because that led him to think that, even now, they weren’t Decepticons. They were mercenaries. Chained to the faction, but not invested in it. They were as distasteful as the Neutrals. A civil war that had drained Cybertron and stretched on for nine million years, but they refused to choose a side? At least the Autobots had the strength of conviction to take a stand!

Unfortunately for the Combaticons’ stubborn refusal to be tamed into Decepticon soldiers, Starscream agreed with Shockwave’s analysis of the program logs. The Decepticon Second was a petty, vindictive slagger. Where Shockwave gathered data and used logic to back his dislike of the combiner team, Starscream passionately hated them for continuing to exist. He’d agreed to tune-up the loyalty program in a dozen years or so, just to spite them.

On a personal level, Shockwave acknowledged that he might, just possibly, still hold an unreasonable grudge against the combiner team for temporarily defeating and exiling him from Cybertron. And, once upon a failed coup, Onslaught had attempted to take over a city from him. Shockwave had thrown the strategist and his entire unit into a detention center for millions of years as recompense, but that still rankled. 

So offering Lord Megatron a solution would not only win favor with the Supreme Commander, it’d also serve as a nice bit of revenge for Shockwave. If the advice was accepted, it would rub Onslaught’s face in how low he’d fallen that the Combaticon leader was judged incapable of disciplining his own team. The humiliation might even facilitate better conduct from the whole combiner team. Their behavior certainly couldn’t get much worse.

With that thought in mind, Shockwave interrupted the tirade. “Lord Megatron, I apologize in advance for my interruption, but I might have a solution. If I may?”

Megatron cut himself off in the middle of roughly shaking his subcommander. Onslaught’s cannons made such convenient handles. And while the insides had sensors meant to withstand powerful blasts, the outer casings had no such protection. 

The Combaticon was actively trying not to provoke more anger at this point. His attempts to speak reasonably with his Lord had halted the moment Megatron grabbed the barrel, hand threatening to crush it in his grip. Defending his team was not worth the result. Crushed cannon barrels were…painful. Staying silent or making placating noises was far preferable.

“Shockwave, you’d better have something useful to say,” the Supreme Commander growled. Onslaught just hung from his hand and waited for the shaking to resume.

“Yes, Lord Megatron,” Shockwave said respectfully. “I have recently been made aware of a Decepticon officer who has returned from deployment off-world. He has applied for placement in our newest campaign, and his record is quite exemplary in comparison to some.” He did not look at Onslaught, no matter how loud the implication was. The Combaticon’s visor twitched, and he turned his head slowly to glare through the screen at Shockwave. “You might find his specialized expertise useful for the issue at hand.” Hint hint, the mecha hanging from said hand. 

Hint taken. Megatron looked suddenly thoughtful, and oh, Onslaught didn’t like that one bit. The Combaticon leader looked warily at their leader. Angered reprimands were good in comparison to when the Supreme Commander started thinking. His immediate rage caused bodily pain; his thought-tempered reactions caused worse for mind and body alike.

The Combaticons’ unique situation and reprogramming were an abject demonstration of that fact.

“He has also shown a...commendable dedication to duty,” Shockwave finished smoothly, if not a little smugly. “I had wished to acknowledge that dedication before commissioning him again. Receiving a disciplinary assignment may be considered a reward, of sorts. He seems to enjoy dealing with stubborn individuals. As his record shows, he has a history of taking command of troublesome troops, who then give subsequent officers far less trouble than prior to their stint under his command.” 

The warlord kept his thoughtful glare as he accepted the data packet Shockwave hastily put together describing the aforementioned officer’s specs. The one-optic mech made sure to include descriptions of what aspects of his duty this officer had been so proficient at.

“While I do not doubt temporary removal of Bruticus from Earth will hamper progress,” of course his tone held no doubt, why would he doubt, surely Onslaught believed every sincerity-oozing word Shockwave said, “the advantage gained from increased performance and cooperation will prove more beneficial in the long term. Not to mention that rewarding an outstanding officer will serve as an example for the ranks.” For more than the officers, in fact. Rewards and punishments could be handed down from above in equal measure, which was a reminder the more rebellious soldiers needed. Shockwave’s recommended action could be see either way: rewarding an officer, or punishing a soldier. 

Megatron took some time to consider the files, slowly releasing the cannon half-crumpled in his grip as he thought. Onslaught straightened cautiously to stand at attention at his shoulder, not stupid enough to dare leave without permission. The Combaticon leader flexed his armament a few times, testing the damage, and eyed the screen with scant favor. Shockwave looked blankly back. He knew Onslaught wasn’t buying the innocent act, but what could the Combaticon do right now? Protest that it was his right to discipline Vortex when he’d manifestly failed to do so?

Onslaught could respect the strategy behind the powerplay, even if he was on the losing side. Even with the mask in place, Shockwave could read a grudging respect off his expression. Both subcommanders knew just who’d won today. It was only a question of how Megatron acknowledged the victor. 

Shockwave couldn’t see Megatron’s expression as his lord turned around, but the Combaticon now facing him certainly could. Apprehension lit the mecha’s visor bright red, and Shockwave couldn’t help but lean forward just a bit in anticipation.

“Commendable indeed,” Megatron said with a dry laugh.

Rewards and outstanding officers; rebellious grunts and their well-deserved punishments.

Onslaught’s sudden flinch was such a sweet reward.

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**0 0 _The Booty (Bibliotecaria_D speaks)_ 0 0**

DEAR HOLY PRIMUS IT’S SO NICE TO ONLY HAVE TO EDIT. And kick the author into writing, but mostly just editing. [/leaves responsibility to Shibara]


	3. Chapter 3

**0 0 Part Three 0 0**

 

Vortex realized they had arrived at their destination when the lack of noise and engine vibrations woke him from recharge. They’d been his constant companions since this trip had started, and the sudden change woke him. Pressed as he was to the cargo hold’s back wall, the shuttle thrusters felt quite powerful when thrumming directly into his rotor hub. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling -- Blast Off would cater to his whims if coaxed sufficiently -- and one he could have enjoyed if he hadn’t been all but stapled to the wall. Not being able to move wasn’t sexy, in his opinion. Three whole days of not being able to move had amped it from a mere nuisance to downright annoying.

Astrotrain had built-in cargo strapping back here. Between those and the glue on his rotor blades, he wasn’t going anywhere until someone took him down. It wasn’t a novel method of restraint by any means, considering the fact that the Constructicons had used his own glue gun to stick him to the wall, but he was looking forward to someone tearing his rotor blades loose. He hoped it hurt. Now _that_ would be sexy.

He squirmed in his restraints, trying to catch a glimpse of where they’d landed through the open hatch, but the Constructicons had been thorough. The straps tied him to the wall firmly, and he couldn’t bend against his rotor hub enough to see more than a sliver of the outside world. Also, the triple-changer’s cargo bay was full of enormous boxes that blocked his view further. Vortex had no idea what they were, but the fact that they were made of cardboard meant they had come from Earth, too. What the frag could be worth shipping off that miserable planet?

“Are we there yet?” he called, only half-joking now. He’d kept up a steady litany of jokes and filthy innuendo for the first day in transit, including an intentionally whiny rendition of a small human grub (child, kitten, larval thing, or whatever the tiny ones that made the best hostages were called) on a long car trip. It seemed to be a popular joke on Earth television. Vortex hadn’t ever thought to try it himself until he’d seen his first human sitcom. It hadn’t worked very well; Blast Off had just given him a count-down until arrival, and Onslaught had approved forcibly ejecting him if he tried it while in transit with anyone else. 

Since he’d been quite literally stuck with Astrotrain, he’d given it another try. It’d been another disappointment. Astrotrain had ignored him. Of course, a sickeningly detailed monologue on how to vivisect a shuttleformer had gotten no reaction as well, so the triple-change had likely not been listening to anything in the cargo hold.

Soon enough, a number of drones boarded and started unloading the boxes. By the looks of it, they were carrying them into the large building near where they had landed. Gravity made it seem like they’d landed, anyway, and that looks more like the exterior of a building than anything to be seen inside an orbital station. The narrow sliver of outdoors not blocked by the walls looked planetary. That looked vaguely sky-ish, up there. He couldn’t really _see_ , however, and not knowing bothered him.

Vortex felt the pang of anxiety he tried not to think about deepen. He didn’t like admitting to any sort of weakness, but gestalt-related issues were the kind of weakness he was still adjusting to. Relying on other mechs was disquieting emotionally, however much fun he had manipulating such bonds in his victims during interrogations. Being coded and rebuilt for spark-deep bonds of emotion and mind made him want to purge his tanks if he thought about it too much. He was not a mech forged for dependency, and here he was trapped into a combiner team. Trapped, and worse yet, _getting used to it._ He’d gone from wanting to drop Swindle into a smelter for fun, to wanting to drop Swindle into a smelter because, slaggit, the little bastard had sold him for parts and that just wasn’t -- wasn’t --

Oh, for frag’s sake. It wasn’t nice, okay? He hadn’t expected it and couldn’t defend himself from it, because at some point, he’d stopped being able to think about his teammates like he did other mechs. And, yes, if he dropped Swindle into a smelter, he’d immediately fish the slagging sonnuvaglitch back out before he melted. Well, before there was permanent damage.

Now here he was, separated from his gestaltmates, and he was getting anxiety pangs about it. He couldn’t stop them, and he couldn’t get rid of the emotional ties causing them. The gestalt rebuild had mainlined the bond straight into his spark and his mind. He hated that nagging fact, but that didn’t stop it from _being_ a fact. The gestalt code had wormed inside his core programming so deep that it’d made Vortex -- the notorious interrogator, the cold killer for fun and murderer of any ally no longer useful -- into someone who depended on four other mechs. A lot. To the point where he was wondering ( _not_ worrying, _never_ worrying, he wasn’t _that_ weak) how they were dealing with his absence after three days.

He’d been gone much longer than that. Onslaught had informed him he was to spend the rest of his incarceration somewhere off-world, and it was non-negotiable because those were Megatron’s orders, not Onslaught’s. Vortex knew that because there’d been a tight, angry tension over the closed gestalt-bond. His team leader’s voice had held that peculiar tone he associated with forced obedience. That meant that, A) Megs was really pissed this time, and B) incarceration was probably going to be longer and more unpleasant than anticipated. Possibly, C) Onslaught was going to take his humiliated, involuntary submission out on the helicopter later.

It gave him something to look forward to for when he eventually returned from...wherever he’d been sent.

Relocation of offenders wasn’t a terribly rare punishment, especially for combiner mecha who suffered the lack of contact with their gestaltmates. Bonecrusher usually got sent to the outpost in Siberia whenever he started a fight. It was freezing cold, the roads were awful, and mecha posted there were under strict orders to avoid attracting Autobot or native attention. That meant no flying, no ‘playing’ with the local humans, and no exterminating the outpost’s persistent bear infestation. Boredom and bears were close friends when mecha got assigned to Siberia. There was only so much fun to be had on the Internet. Depending on the situation on Earth, Bonecrusher would be stuck there to rot anywhere from a week to six months, or until the other Constructicons persuaded Megatron to pardon their most violent member. 

The Stunticons, on the other hand, just got sent to separate rooms like bad children. The odd part was that it actually seemed to work. Drag Strip and Wildrider would beat on their doors and wail if separated too long, which sounded ridiculous and was fragging hilarious whenever Vortex got put on guard duty in the Stunticon common room. 

“Can I come out yet?”

“No.”

“Now?!”

“Nope.”

“When?”

“Never. Megatron called. You’re on permanent lockdown.”

“Motormasteeeeeeeeer!!”

So, yes, various degrees of separation were used when disciplining the combiner teams. It wasn’t a special punishment. What _was_ special was how Vortex didn’t recognize this particular facility. That _was_ strange. He had been, at one point or another, in pretty much every Decepticon Detention Centre, brig, and dungeon out there, as either a guard, interrogator, or prisoner. Yet he was getting completely unfamiliar atmospheric readouts from the air outside. The sky was a color he didn’t recognize. Even the walls he could see didn’t look familiar.

His thoughts cut off when the drones finished unloading the last box. Vortex had asked Astrotrain several times what was in them, but the mech had refused to answer. Vortex was fairly sure the triple-changer hadn’t kept his cargo-hold speakers on during the trip. If he’d spoken to Blast Off about previous experiences transporting the ‘copter, he probably hadn’t. Even restrained, Vortex wasn’t an easy passenger. The plethora of irritating questions and nauseating descriptions had broken many mecha trapped in small spaces with him before this.

A pair of heavy-duty drones approached the restrained mecha and started untangling the wall straps. Vortex contemplated struggling, but a data-stick suddenly plugged into one of his arm ports. The sedation program on it turned whatever ideas he might have had into black static as he was forced into recharge.  
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	4. Chapter 4

**0 0 Part Four 0 0**

 

Vortex next wake-up call was far less gentle. His systems booted him into complete disorientation: gyros spinning out of control, visor registering nothing but blurred movement, and audios overwhelmed with a cacophony all around. Everything was confused chaos. As soon as his optics reset and started to focus, there was another lurch that sent everything spinning again. The thumping movement seemed to engulf him whole, flopping him along as an unidentifiable crackling sound accompanied every drunken heave. He hadn’t felt this disoriented since Swindle conned him into transporting an entire auxiliary tank full of high grade. The rusted thing must have come from the world’s lowest bidder in tank production; it’d promptly sprung a leak as soon as it’d been installed, sending him absolutely reeling through the sky as his primary fuel tanks ran pure distill through his lines. 

This felt like that experience, only with less giggly overcharged flying. Hopefully less fiery crashing and monumental system hangover, too. Although he might feel better after hitting solid ground. Ground generally stayed still. Not the ground he was currently on, but most ground.

Blurgh, everything kept _moving_ …

He was resetting his visor for the third time, groaning softly, when it stopped. The sound, the pushing flops: all of it stopped. He was still not-flying-home-tonight dizzy, but the sudden respite of movement gave his processor just enough time to finish analyzing the information his sensors were taking in. His proximity sensors were giving him odd information that made him think they were being blocked. His visor reset, clearing the cache and reactivating the optical sensors to bring in fresh input. Hopefully, their input would make more sense this go round.

His visor narrowed and quickly blinked through another reset, focusing. There was a wide expanse of floor stretched out in front of him, which made sense. He seemed to have been rolling across it. Or rather, more accurately, he had been _rolled_ by someone or something. Hence the heaving motion as he’d been turned over and over.

The surround-sound noise resolved slowly into less overwhelming input as he sorted through sensor feedback. His audios dialed back and registered the dull _thudd_ ing roar as much more reasonable rustling _crackle_ sound. Some adjustments on playback indicated that the _whoomp_ of impact as he’d been rolled had been the main noisemaker. The crackling sound was being produced by the material he had been rolled onto, which was now wrapped around him. To an annoying degree, now that he had recovered enough to give an experimental wriggle. It was some kind of blanket, made of a plastic polymer with multiple small air chambers on one side, and he was completely _covered_ in it from below his feet to just below his visor.

That explained the proximity sensor issues. They were indeed being blocked, for the most part. Except for the few transmitters and receptors on the top half of his helm, experimental pings from his sensors were immediately bouncing off the inside of the plastic. It was making him feel extremely muffled. The fact that he couldn’t move only made the sensation worse.

His wriggling got him nowhere, but it did make him aware of a peculiar change to his rotor hub. Had his -- ? They had. His rotor blades had been manually unlocked from his vertical mast and folded down to lay in a line down his back. Seriously, who did that to a fixed-position rotary mech? How _rude_. And the sensors on the ends were rubbing against yet more plastic instead of shuffling against themselves, so they must have been individually wrapped in layers of this plastic stuff before he’d been rolled along like artillery ordnance being prepared for shipping. Fraggit, if someone was going to molest him, Vortex preferred to be awake for it!

The plastic blanket-thing became momentarily unimportant when a pair of feet came into view. He heard them coming first, stepping across the floor from somewhere in the vicinity of behind his knees, but the way he’d been wrapped stopped him from turning his head to look. They took their time, striding slowly up the length of his back until they came around his head into sight. The feet stopped before him, and he once again engaged in a futile attempt to move against the plastic enough to look up. The angle was wrong, however, and he couldn’t quite make out who it was standing before him. 

He could tell that the mecha was huge. Tank treads were nothing to call HQ about -- Brawl _was_ part of his gestalt -- but those looked like flight stabilizers up behind the treads. Either this mecha was a flying tank, which was a funny mental image and probably flew like a lead brick, or he was dealing with another triple-changer like Blitzwing. The feet and treads were on the right size-scale. 

“Hello?” Vortex ventured when there were only more plastic crackles. There was a subtle tightening across his chest as the last layer of bubbly blanket-wrap was pulled taunt.

His wary conversational opener was met with another tug on the plastic. “Finally!” the mecha answered, rich voice huffing in amused disdain. Plastic rustled some more, and what sounded like the ragged tear of tape being cut came from out of Vortex’s limited field of vision. There was a muffled push of pressure somewhere near his shoulder that was likely the plastic blanket-thing being secured. More tape tore. He was apparently being sealed into this thing. As the mecha worked, that voice continued, “I was beginning to think you were going to recharge forever.” 

A pair of large hands passed briefly in front of his visor, and Vortex found himself lifted effortlessly to a vertical position. The plastic bubbles squeaked protest as the blanket-thing took his weight, and those hands held him steady until the plastic finished compressing down. When the creaking crackles ceased, his feet still couldn’t touch the floor. The hands gave a small, testing shove that barely budged him. It seemed that it’d take far more force to knock Vortex off his brand new plastic display base.

 _’Triple-changer huge,_ ’ the Combaticon confirmed to himself, just barely catching a glimpse of the mecha’s face since he wasn’t able to tip his own head back against the layers of plastic. The unknown mecha towered above him by several meters, and his build looked much heavier than the usual Decepticon grunt’s frametype. Those looked like gun hatches in his midriff, and there was enough altmode kibble that he thought the mecha was definitely a triple-changer of some sort. Probably an officer of some kind, if the haughty smirk was anything to go by. 

And...wow, those were quite the distinctive set of lips. They were a large and personable facial feature made even more absurd when set against the monstrous machinery of a triple-changer probably capable of wiping out entire outposts. Vortex found the contrast rather attractive. If this was the mecha who’d done things to his rotor blades while he’d been out, he could live with that. Was this the prison warden? Was this a prison? Oh, please tell him that this mecha was going to try playing prison power games with him. Oh, please. He wanted to see those pouty lips twist through the gamut of frustration and hate Vortex brought out in those who tried to outplay the ultimate mindfrag player he was. The warden probably thought he was fully prepared and briefed to deal with the Combaticon, and that was _never_ the case.

The mecha slowly walked around him, looking him up and down, as if measuring... something. Vortex followed the movement as far as he could from the corner of his visor, keeping his helm still. He couldn’t move it much to begin with, what with the blanket-thing wrapped well past his chin, but trying to follow the mystery mecha’s movement indicated curiosity and grasping after a tiny bit of control. Vortex knew why he was being studied, and how to frustrate that little mindgame. 

The ‘copter wriggled again, testing the pliancy of the plastic material, and found it didn’t give an inch. Either the stuff was much harder than it looked, or he was wrapped in too many layers. From the crinkling sounds and multiple stacks of air bubbles he could see from the bottom of his field of vision, his vote was for the layers. So many fragging layers. He couldn’t get a real good look at the bubbly blanket, but the more he tried to move, the more restrictive he discovered it to be. 

It took a while to figure out what he was feeling and map it out in terms of how he’d been restrained. There were layers wrapped separately around his limbs and then around his body, keeping his arms pressed closed to his body but separated by many cushiony layers of plastic. His legs couldn’t touch each other for the plastic surrounding them, for all that they were bound together by yet more layers around them. He couldn’t bend his knees at all, much less flex his ankle joints. Plastic bubble blanket-stuff lovingly cocooning each of his rotor blades under the layers he’d been rolled in at the end, and his chest, arms, and rotor hub had so many layers wound about them that he couldn’t do more than twitch his shoulders. His fingers had been individually wrapped before his hands, then arms, then body had been trussed into a neat package of helpless helicopter.

He could barely wiggle his fingers. That was all the movement he could get. His feet couldn’t touch the ground. His neck was wrapped so tight that he couldn’t do more than tilt his head a bit. He was just...suspended inside a giant tube of air bubbles and plastic strong and big enough to stand up on its own.

Vortex decided the movement restriction was decidedly uncomfortable, but it was quite interesting nonetheless for novelty’s sake. He’d never tried confinement like this on someone before, much less tried it himself. He could see how it could be effective in some of the higher-strung airframes, but he didn’t _need_ open air like Seekers did. This restraint method might break someone who was claustrophobic, and he filed that little fact away for use later. 

With that pro, however, he filed his observations on the cons. Where had this mecha gotten all the plastic bubble-blanket? It would need to be specially manufactured if Vortex couldn’t find his source. Unless this was what had been shipped from Earth in the cardboard boxes? But that meant the plastic was likely the low-quality stuff the humans produced. He couldn’t see that being very useful. Procuring it himself would be easy, what with Swindle being a fellow Combaticon, but human-made plastic was so weak. It had such a low melting point that it’d be practically useless unless he wanted to mire someone in sticky melted plastic as a prank.

In fact, it was more than a bit odd that the stifling plastic blanket tightly constraining him wasn’t creating a temperature problem right now. His body heat might not have created a problem while his systems had been idling in recharge, but now he was awake. His systems were more active, and he couldn’t bleed off the excess heat through air circulation as his body usually did. His vents were all bound closed, hitting the plastic in pathetic little _flop-flop_ s as he tried to order them open. He had to order it, too, because his ventilation system insisted it didn’t need to run at the moment. Air intake from his mask-hidden mouth was apparently supplying enough circulation for necessary functions, and his coolant was handling the rest easily. His temperature gauge, weirdly enough, actually registered _below_ what it’d been onboard Astrotrain. 

That was utterly ridiculous. Muffled up to his visor, Vortex would have said it was impossible. This was a puzzle, and that realization morphed his confusion into excitement. Bound in new and bizarre ways in a facility he’d never seen, at the mercy of an unknown Decepticon officer? Sign him up for some of that!

“Should I know you?” he asked brightly on the triple-changer’s third turn around him. Time to move this game up to the next level. The pacing stopped, leaving his host looking at him from the side. The giant mecha subtly stepped further around, just far enough to the left so that Vortex had to turn his helm the best he could against the plastic to see him. Nice little bit of powerplay there, making the captive’s helpless state perfectly clear. Vortex applauded on the inside.

“My name is Overlord,” the mecha introduced himself, lofty manners implying rude things about what he thought of the smaller Decepticon. “And yours is Vortex. I’ve been asked by Lord Megatron to, hmm, **deal** with a minor irritant. Namely, you. It seems that the Decepticon forces on Earth need a break from the likes of you.” He circled around Vortex one more time, taking his time until he came up on the Combaticon’s other side. “I was told you were...problematic, Vortex,” Overlord said, making the statement a question.

Vortex watched his captor’s spectacular lips purse slightly, fascinated. They conveyed emotion so broadly the signals actually became harder to read! He couldn’t quite tell if Overlord’s facial expression was supposed to convey distaste or something else, and the bright glitter of the mecha’s optics muddled things further. Everything was at odds with his bored drawl. This was becoming more exciting by the minute, but probably not in the way this Overlord mecha intended.

“Problematic? I have no idea what you are talking about,” Vortex chirped, cheerfully obnoxious. “I don’t even know why I’m here...errr, can I have your designation again?”

He had assumed the tall mecha would tense and bristle in anger at the obvious lack of respect, but the plush lips curved in a smile. Not that easy to bait; Vortex made a mental note. He’d find the right buttons to push to irritate his host/prison warden yet. “Overlord, as I just said.” The other Decepticon’s bored tone took on an amused tint. “So, Vortex. You would have me believe that you have no knowledge of why you are here. You are as innocent as a newspark. Am I to assume there has been a mistake? Should I call the Earth base, on your behalf?”

The ‘copter widened his visor and gave his most earnest expression of confusion. “You really should,” he said, just a poor mecha in distress. Why was this terrible plastic being inflicted on him? Woe was Vortex! “These things happen all the time. One moment you’re peacefully recharging in your berth, and then **wham!** Someone mis-files your designation and off you go, sent to a base in the aft end of nowhere to suffer in place of someone else.”

“Oh, such a thing would be terrible, would it not?” The sweet, insincere smile looked totally out of place on the face of this Decepticon. Vortex wanted to see him scowl. A scowl would fit him much better, he could tell. The amusement did suddenly drop, which was an improvement. “Although I am fairly certain we’re both aware there has been no mistake this time,” Overlord said tersely.

They were both toying with each other. Overlord had been simply indulging his innocent act for a moment, perhaps getting a feel for how the Combaticon played the game. Vortex knew what was happening, just like he knew why he was there. This was the same delicious foreplay he engaged in with his own interrogation subjects. It was the lazy, artificial chatter to measure how the other mecha reacted. Prodding with words always came before prodding with other things, and wasn’t this exciting, to finally be on the other side of the table? He was certainly looking forward to seeing just what this arrogant aft had in store for him. So far, it only seemed to involve an extremely wasteful restraint method. 

And leaving him alone. Overlord gave him a mocking half-bow before turning to leave, pointedly leaving the door unlocked as he went. The showy exit got a smirk behind the Combaticon’s mask. Vortex knew the waiting game. Anticipation of torture and interrogation worked on a subject’s mind even before the main event began. 

This game? How unoriginal. He knew how to play this old game.

So he waited. 

...for days. 

Days and days.

The length of time, if nothing else, was sort of refreshingly different. That didn’t make waiting any more exciting.

Primus, he was so very bored.

His chronometer had been deactivated along with his weapons systems, but that was standard incarceration lock-down. Vortex was used to that. More surprising was how his ventilation system refused to respond, still insisting he was cool enough despite the insulating layers of plastic. That continued to be strange. Also, his fuel and fluid gauges had been turned off. Someone didn’t want him to measure time by his system reservoir status readouts. Clever, if annoying.

Most surprising of all, however, was how someone had cut off access to certain applications. He hadn’t been _hacked_. That was one of the things his watchdog programs stayed online to deal with even when he was knocked out, and those programs hadn’t been tampered with. He wasn’t too concerned about being hacked by his own side, but he kind of anticipated being hacked by Autobots. As a high-ranking interrogator, he had firewalled databanks under official Decepticon High Command protection. Anyone who got through the first layer would come up against a _’Do Not Touch’_ order and seal. It would get progressively nastier from there if the hacker persisted, but no prison warden would be foolish enough to disobey that warning without direct orders from Megatron. Autobot interrogators, on the other hand, kept trying. He was hoping for a repeat of the drooling shell of a mech that’d been left after one memorable attempt to crack him.

That was neither here nor now, however pleasant the memory was. It kept him entertained for a brief minute, but the distraction passed too quickly. He’d gone through his best memories already, replaying them until they wore old. He’d contemplated revenge, but even that got dull after the four hundredth imagined scream. No, Vortex was bored out of his plating, and what had been cut off from him was the one thing he really wanted. It was stupid and silly and -- and -- slaggit. Normally he hated it, but after far, far too long with nothing to look at but walls and nothing to do but futilely squirm?

Right now he was desperate for anything that could distract him, even that annoying Microsoft game application suite Starscream had installed in the Combaticons out of some twisted form of sadism. Vortex would have laid odds that nothing but a direct shot to the cortex could get rid of that application suite, since that was about all his team hadn’t tried yet. Blast Off had been convinced he’d gotten rid of it once, only to merge into Bruticus and get the whole fragging set of games re-installed via a gestalt hardline download. Watching the shuttleformer have a mental breakdown on the battlefield because of Solitaire hadn’t been pretty.

Vortex would kill for a game of Minesweeper right now. Or, Primus save him from addictive, time-wasting games -- Free Cell! At least trying to beat Blast Off’s high score would give him _something_ to do. Something, _anything_ , but waiting here like a plastic-wrapped package refused upon delivery.

The slaghead who’d greeted him the first day hadn’t so much as glanced at him since. Vortex had held out for days, or what he roughly estimated to be days. Days-ish. Possibly. Between his deactivated chronometer and the unchanging room he was in, time blurred badly. He had called for the other Decepticon loudly when he tired of waiting. Then named him a variety of things, organic and inorganic. He moved on to singing lewd bar songs from Cybertron and Michael Jackson’s greatest hits, but nothing happened whatsoever. The lighting never changed. His gauges continued to tell him nothing.

He knew about the waiting game, but there was a difference between waiting and being forgotten in an out-of-the-way room somewhere. This was beginning to feel like the latter. This obviously wasn’t a prison, unless prisons typically had otherwise normal rooms dedicated to nothing but isolating difficult prisoners. The door was unlocked, but closed. He knew the door wasn’t soundproof because he could hear the drones who tended him, but he never heard anything else. There was just no one else around to hear. Unless the triple-changer walked like Ravage, that meant he hadn’t even gone near Vortex’s position since trapping him here.

Isolation, despite how Vortex didn’t want to admit it, was becoming a more effective strategy by the day. Boredom and inactivity wouldn’t break him, but it was uniquely frustrating in a way he hadn’t anticipated. That’d been interesting for approximately a minute and half of introspection, and then he’d gone back to trying to _do_ something.

He had tried to tumble himself to the ground, but the restraints robbed him of the ability to move. The tube-roll of bubbly plastic blanket-stuff was surprisingly effective. His rotor hub _whirr_ ed sadly, unable to do more than twitch, and he couldn’t even turn his arms against the layers of wrapping. The best he could achieve was an extremely lame wiggling inside his swaddling. His actuators were going to seize up from inactivity. His joints ached a little at first, but when the most he could do was jitter the tensile cables, they settled into a disconnected sort of numbness. It was rather unsettling, because sometimes it felt like parts of him were no longer attached.

The helicopter eventually got so bored he tried sweet-talking the drones that fueled him. It was an absolutely pointless thing. “Soooo, come here often?” said suggestively to a machine came out pathetic even to his own audios. 

They weren’t even semi-sentient robots. They came at erratic times and injected him with an unknown quantity of fuel every time. They didn’t respond to verbal commands, at least as far as he’d been able to tell. He’d tried every combination of passcode and command he could think of, and several positions that logic said were fictional unless the drones had better joints than he did. Unfortunately, even trying to dream up new command codes and crude orders could only keep him occupied for so long. 

The drones came at intervals he _thought_ were spaced out to keep him from predicting their arrivals or use their schedule to keep track of time, but for all he knew, they were strictly on a timed schedule. The unchanging blank room kept him from knowing just how long he’d been kept here, much less how much time passed between fuelings. He counted how many times they’d fueled him, and he thought it’d been fifteen days. Maybe.

He realized on the (maybe?) tenth day that he was impatiently looking forward to his next fueling. The drones were just programmed to stick a needle in the correct neck tubing, sliding through a hole punctured through the plastic, but the copter had reached a level of boredom where that was the perk of his day. It gave him a chance to at least speak _at_ someone -- or some _thing_ , anyway. Inventing a new obscenity to shout became his goal, since there was nothing else to do.

Also, it was getting cold. Not the room itself, but his body. He needed to find out why that was happening. His body temperature had remained level since Overlord had left him, but every couple of fuelings, the temperature gauge dropped a few degrees before stabilizing again. It didn’t seem possible, since his external reader didn’t vary. Even covered by plastic -- which should have been keeping system-generated heat _in_ , by all laws of physics -- his external temperature gauge seemed to be working correctly. A steady cooling over a long period of time could have been attributed to, perhaps, his systems adjusting to the situation by shutting down auxiliary functions. That wasn’t good news, but it made _sense_. This business of stabilizing, dropping, and stabilizing again was neither natural nor healthy.

If it wasn’t the room’s temperature changing, that meant it was his body that was sporadically cooling. That wasn’t alarming _at all_.

Vortex started yelling questions at the drones. They still didn’t react.

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	5. Chapter 5

**0 0 Part Five 0 0**

 

Far below the isolated room he’d prepared for his little guest, Overlord sat in the comfortable seat Shockwave had personally sent him. In return for agreeing to deal with Megatron’s miscreant, he’d gotten quite a few portable luxuries: the seat, a selection of datapads brimming with the best of Cybertron’s entertainment media, and his choice of placement in the upcoming invasion. This was, after all, something of a reward for the Decepticon officer, even if most mecha would regard banishment to an abandoned outpost station as exile, not a gift.

Not Overlord. Other Cybertronians were potential pleasure for him, but most didn’t share his...tastes. A base full of Decepticons would have been amusing chattel at best, not company. Some time to relax alone was truly a reward, especially when the vacation was accompanied by small tokens of acknowledgement for a job well done and a present tagged, “Refurbish and return upon completion.”

No instructions. No limitations. Just a disciplinary file the length of his arm and a personnel file that read like an Autobot nightmare. 

How perfect. He did like a challenge.

Overlord rolled his head to the side and gazed lazily at the console screen from across the room. The rotary seemed to be talking to the drones again. The video feed had no audio, but he could tell by the minute movements of the Combaticon’s helm that the mecha was saying something. Shouting insults or demands, in all likelihood.

_‘Hmmm. A week more,’_ he thought, and went back to reading. He was in no hurry. Overlord: artist of pain and gardener of manipulation. Every artist knew time had no factor when a project was in the making. Rushing the growth of these particular seeds of discipline would only stunt the harvest.

He hummed thoughtfully. He liked those analogies. What Vortex’s opinion on them was, well, neither gardeners nor artists asked what their raw materials felt about being changed.

That wasn’t to say he wouldn’t enjoy reminding the Combaticon of the beginning phases once they finished. That would be _exquisite._

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	6. Chapter 6

**0 0 Part Six 0 0**

 

Vortex’s recharge periods had started to increase. With the absolute lack of external input and his steadily dropping internal temperature, his systems had apparently decided that, hey, since there was nothing better to do, they might as well spend longer times in recharge. He talked to himself or the drones; he played bad Earth pop songs over his internal speakers; he relived his memories ad nauseum. And then he slept.

It was either that or spend more time staring at the wall. With such excitement to look forward to, was it any wonder his booting sequences had become increasingly more sluggish as time passed?

In fact, his schedule was so bursting with activity that he nearly slept through something actually happening. When he onlined to Overlord standing mere meters from him, Vortex stared mutely at him for a few minutes until his processor finally caught up to what he was seeing.

“Oh. It’s you again. Hello, you. I thought you’d gone out on holiday or something,” Vortex rasped, his voice hoarse with lack of use. He coughed static through his vocalizer to clear the interference. His vocalizer complained, citing a hardware error. “So, are you going to do something, or am I supposed to just wait for an entire vorn until you decide to come back from whatever hole you crawled into since -- ”

His vocalizer interrupted itself, an involuntary system override _click_ ing when the taller Decepticon sighed and turned around to head back toward the door. An unknown software error warning cut off the sass before Vortex even realized he’d shut up. Code deeper than mere system programming _ached_ like he’d been punched open and gutted, internal mechanisms suddenly missing. He abruptly felt empty, like his own body, his own _company_ , were no longer enough to support vital functions.

His shoulders strained, trying to reach out after Overlord even as gestalt links tried frantically to activate. They led into nothing but faint impressions of his teammates, and that somehow made the ache worse. There wasn’t even the least feeling that they were reaching toward him in return. The gestalt-bond felt numb, hanging off his spark like a cold parasite that leeched him of strength, and something deep in the back of his mind _twisted_.

Vortex had been forgotten. He was isolated and forgotten and --

No. He couldn’t take it, but -- no. The direction the frantic need was dragging his thoughts hit him with near-physical force, and need slammed up against dumbfounded admiration. The Combaticon marveled at the way isolation had snuck his innate gestalt weakness up inside him. It’d never been an issue before, so he hadn’t thought to worry about what the solitary confinement was doing to him.

Now he was aware, however, and stubborn refusal powered past the abandonment issues. He’d find a way to deal with it later.

His vocalizer crackled before clearing. “Wait. **Wait!** ”

The tall Decepticon officer paused at the threshold, glancing at him with every plate on his frame drawling, _‘You are boring my royal self.’_

Frag and rust if that mecha’s mouth wasn’t mesmerizing. Vortex stared at it greedily, storing it in his memory to imagine defiling in every way possible later. He’d get days of daydreaming out of an image-capture of those unbelievably plump lips, and, yes, he’d need the distraction.

Because he wasn’t going to break this easily. The isolation had been a good plan, a clever ploy, but now he knew about it. It was tightening around his rotor hub, urging him to struggle after the triple-changer, but Vortex was onto him. It wouldn’t work, now. But unless this mecha was weaker-willed than he thought, his version of letting the fragger know the plan had failed wasn’t going to help matters any. 

Well, no one had ever said that Vortex wasn’t a stubborn glitch. 

“Wait. I -- I need to tell you this.” The Combaticon sucked in a deep vent, as if bracing himself to confess the most important thing ever. “You are the worst host in the history of hosting,” he said solemnly. “I’m not recommending this establishment to any of my friends.”

There. He knew the fragger knew that he knew what was going on. Now Overlord knew it wasn’t going to work, either. Vortex was looking forward to whatever got tried on him next. It probably wouldn’t be _easy_ , but that was part of the fun!

The other Decepticon’s expression didn’t change in the slightest as he left, still pointedly leaving the door unlocked. Starved-for-input audios strained to track a faint chuckle fading off into the distance. The distant clomp of heavy feet could be heard for about two minutes longer.

Vortex found himself alone once more.

After a while, a refueling drone came and went.

Then it came again. And went again. The waiting game, or was he a forgotten prisoner? No. No, he couldn’t be that. He was a _Combaticon_. He wasn’t a nobody; he was part of an important combiner team. Overlord wouldn’t forget him, but apparently he played a patient game.

Before this, before the plastic bubble-blanket roll and his days inside it, Vortex could have regarded it as exactly that: a game. An unimaginative version of it, really, once his interest in the plastic stuff wore off. The tall triple-changer would have been his opponent, maybe even a worthy adversary, and Vortex would have looked forward to trying to mindfrag the mecha right back. 

But his initial confidence was running up against something he hadn’t anticipated. The waiting game had seemed bothersome but simple enough to power through once he knew what it was supposed to accomplish. Provoking Overlord had been meant to hustle the game along to a new phase, but the pouty-lipped officer had thicker plating than that. Fine. He’d been stubbornly certain that if Onslaught couldn’t break him with beatings and stony silence, then some plastic and an empty room wouldn’t be able to accomplish it, either. Overlord wasn’t bound by spark and body to him for the rest of his existence, so what the frag could the mecha do in comparison, really?

There was a sinking, awful feeling building deep in his chassis the longer this went on, however. A feeling that Vortex might have been wrong. The boredom, inactivity, and sheer _time_ had triggered something the Combaticon didn’t quite know how to handle. Something internal that left him confused and somehow spinning out of control.

This time, the waiting began to hurt. Not physically, not real pain that he could relish as _sensation_ , but a swelling, dull growth of an absence. He _lacked_ , and it ached in a way that he could only compare to hurting. Something deeper than code curled clawed fingers of yearning into his mind, crawling through his head in a search for input that wasn’t being provided. It wasn’t pain, but he wished it was. Pain was input. Primus, he _craved_ input so badly it lurched the fuel in his tanks if he thought about it too much. 

He tried not to, because thinking about it reminded him of the last time he’d been unable to move, unable to _feel_ , and he couldn’t deal with that. He couldn’t. He could tear apart Autobots for fun or information, he could fight opponents twice his size, but there were certain box-like things he just couldn’t handle. He was a crazy glitch and fearsome interrogator, but a mere memory could bring him down.

Not that he didn’t fight it. He constantly reminded himself of everything that was different. He’d been rolled up in plastic, not boxed in. Even if the room was shaped like a box, just on a larger scale, and --

No, starting over. Bad train of thought. Vortex couldn’t think about that. 

Differences, he had to think about differences. He could still feel his body, even if wiggling his fingers and tilting his head back and forth inside his cocoon was the best he could do. He could see. Sight was important. It might be another box, but at least he could see it. He had fuel moving through his tubes, miniscule as that movement was. He couldn’t taste anything because the drones injected him with fuel instead of letting him drink it, but he dwelled the movement of his energon. Even the tiniest movement was more than he’d had…before.

The lack of physical stimulus left him nothing to do but think, however, and the comparing the differences inevitably led back to noting the similarities. Pleasant daydreams of elaborate revenge only tided him over for so long. Then it was back to trying not to think about The Box. 

That horrible memory inevitably made him think about his spark, and then the dull, painless pressure _ached_ through him again. It was an itch he couldn’t scratch. It was in his head and coiled around his spark. 

It took far too long to identify what he was feeling, much less where it came from. The aching _yearning_ infused him from the struts out, pulling inward like it’d suck him inside-out with how much it _needed_ , and he groaned when he figured out why it seemed so sourceless. When it came from everywhere, it was hard to tell where it started -- except that it’d started everywhere. The gestalt program permeated his whole body and whirled in his spark. 

The need for his gestalt, a psychological _compulsion_ installed below the level of system operations programs, couldn’t be fulfilled. He needed the emotional links, he craved the spark-bonds, he itched for the smallest brush of physical contact, and the very _idea_ of combining had his struts trying to crawl out of his body to go join with his team.

Deprived of his team by distance, the painless, sucking void wanted anything. A substitute of any form would do, but Vortex needed that _something_ more than he needed energon. Continued denial of input, of physical contact and social interaction, carved shavings of willpower away like dull blade sawing the edges off his mind. 

The helicopter could remember life before his spark and body had become part of a gestalt, but mecha couldn’t stop being part of combiner teams once linked in. They had _tried_ , fraggit. Blast Off spent as much time in orbit as he physically could, but the longer he spent away, the more he needed them when he returned, and not because he liked their company in any way, shape, or form. Swindle probably would sell body parts to get away from the other four mecha in the team. He’d certainly tried selling theirs, anyway. Brawl had interfaced his way through most of the Elite’s ranks, only to return to Combaticon HQ frustrated, if physically sated.

Vortex had tried assassinating Onslaught. That hadn’t worked out well for either of them, but it’d effectively ground in the point that they were stuck with each other. Stuck with the whole unit as a combiner team. They were Combaticons. They were no longer capable of being individuals.

Hence Vortex’s problem now. He was a Combaticon, but he was alone. He was alone. He was so very alone.

That fact was breaking him. Breaking him open, scraping him clean, and leaving him hollow and throbbing with a desire so intense lust of any kind couldn’t compare. Not that it wouldn’t help plug the empty hole a little! Bloodlust, sexual lust, even just plain old material greed -- he’d take it all, so long as there was someone else involved. 

What he wouldn’t give for a good hard rape right now. Come _on_. A mecha held completely helpless, and nobody coming to take advantage of him? What kind of Decepticon was Overlord, anyway?

…although it wouldn’t be much of a rape if he interfaced his rapist blind with sheer enthusiasm, tried for a second and third round, and wanted the fragger to cuddle him afterward. Which was a weird thing for him to want any day, but the back of his head was drowning in need for touch, any kind of touch, even just someone to talk to if that’s all he could get! Anything that’d trigger his sensors and provide some blasted _input_.

The drones kept coming and going. No matter how he tensed every time the door opened, just waiting for Overlord to return, the other Decepticon didn’t. Only drones, energon, and needles came through that door. His sense of isolation deepened. The maddening, unscratchable itch of deprivation got worse. And absolutely nothing continued to happen.

By the tenth time the fuelling cycle repeated, Vortex shut up. Part of his processor told him talking to himself and playing music was a perfectly acceptable waste of time since there was nothing better to do. That same part of his processor felt compelled to try and fill the silence with noise.

He dreaded the eerie silence in which the drones moved, because their noiseless functions reminded him that _nothing_ made noise in this fragging place. He replayed his memories and murmured along with past conversations. His small interior speakers screeched feedback as he amped them as high as they would go; the music and victims’ screams he played still couldn’t push back the silence in the room, especially muffled as they were by all the plastic wrapped around him. He grumbled insults at the drones, but everything he did, from talking to himself to singing or talking to the drones, just served to point out how far he was from any real contact. It didn’t make the crawling _need_ subside, and it really only served to make him think about what he was trying to do.

He made himself stop.

He had found out through obsessive observation that there were three different drones. They were almost exactly the same, save for minuscule scrapes in their paint and a dent in one’s side. Vortex hadn’t even realized he’d memorized their tiny differences until he found himself calling them by name. When had he named them? Oh, well. Dent, Smudge and The Fragging Bastard -- the latter one he remembered sarcastically naming, at least, after a sharp nick to a coolant tube in his throat -- came one after each other on an irregular schedule. When they came in and how much fuel they gave him each time varied, but their rotation never changed. There wasn’t even the smallest sliver of anticipation granted by the need to search out identifying markers each time; he already knew who was next in the schedule. He’d probably combust of excitement if the wrong one showed up.

His entire body had actually seized into trembling when he’d thought it’d happened once, but then he’d checked his self-repair queue and found there’d been a needle hole patched in his throat tubing while he’d been in recharge. The drones’ schedule hadn’t changed. He’d just started sleeping right through the tiny pain of the needle. The pitiful highlight of his existence at this point, and he’d slept through it. That was…somewhat alarming.

Vortex decided he had to stop talking to the drones after he started answering himself with different voices for each one. Especially when he absently started inventing epic backstories for how Dent had gotten its dent. That was too pathetic even for his admittedly low standards right now.

With the almost nonexistent entertainment of the drones out of the picture, he turned to cataloguing. He counted twenty-three panels in the wall to his left versus twenty-two on the right. The floor and roof both had three panels that he could see from his position, with seventy-eight bolts each. He recounted twice just to make sure, and a third time because it hadn’t bored him yet. He couldn’t move his head enough to see more of the room than that, but he scrutinized the dizzy first moments from when he’d onlined here. It was highly inaccurate trying to extrapolate the size of the room from the blurred memories, but it took him about an hour -- he thought -- to work out the math for how many panels were probably in the whole room, allowing change in measurements depending on how badly his memories were corrupted.

It was a short-lived mental exercise. There were only so many things that could be counted in a small room, and even less since Vortex couldn’t move from where he’d been left. He tried to recall how large the building had seemed from the brief glimpse through Astrotrain’s hatch, but even trying to calculate the number of panels and bolts needed to build a hypothetical base kept him occupied for less than a fueling cycle.

That left him with nothing to do but watch his temperature gauge and wait. Every few fueling cycles, his internal temperature would drop and stabilize at a slightly lower temperature. It didn’t seem physically possible, but it kept happening. His ventilation system responded to his test pings by trying to open his vents against the plastic wrapped around him, but it went offline again as soon as he prodded it online. It insisted it wasn’t needed, and internal logs showed that whatever was causing this bizarre temperature change seemed to be sourced from the inside. His coolant reservoir was mostly full, the pump’s beating gradually petering out as his body stopped requiring cooling altogether. The entire cooling system sat unused because his body seemed to be entering hibernation as the chill deepened. 

He was _cold_ , so cold he _ached_ and getting _colder_ , but his body refused to do anything about it. It was a trick of the mind that he felt so extremely cold; really, all that was happening was that he was slowly cooling toward room temperature. Which was a sign of something going terribly wrong. The temperature of his frame should have been high enough to melt the plastic blanket-thing wrapped around him, but the cold he dropped further into cycle by cycle kept that from happening. It was also keeping his frame from overheating in the claustrophobic hug of the plastic.

The pained ache, he realized eventually, came from his vital systems slowing down so much while he was still conscious. Supporting an online mind inside a body dropping toward machine stasis wasn’t something that should happen. Medical stasis was induced no matter the condition of the mind or body. Machine stasis happened when a body was unable to continue functioning within operational parameters. If the mind didn’t heed the warnings and error alerts, then it was pushed safely offline before the body shut itself down to conserve resources and hopefully last until help came.

Except that Vortex was still awake, and his subconscious kept prodding the stasis protocols in bewilderment. _Something_ was activating them, or perhaps the lack of external stimulus was causing so much strain on his gestalt code that there was an innate conflict. He didn’t know. All he knew was that he was inside a body gradually shutting down around him, and that was a terrifying prospect. He fought it, consciously turning everything back on, but it was too little, too late. Most of the stasis protocols were sluggishly active already, and they slowed down system operations a tad bit more every time he lost focus. It was a self perpetuating cycle, too: his body was turning off, so it coaxed him to recharge more, but every time he slipped into sleep, his systems slowed that much more and didn’t speed back up once he woke.

Eventually, he wasn’t going to wake up. His body would enter stasis, and it would become his new spark-box.

Vortex desperately looked for anything to distract himself enough to stay awake, now. He’d thought being put back in The Box was the worst nightmare possible, but no. No, seeing it coming this way was truly frightening. He wasn’t some weakling Autobot shellshocked from the frontlines, afraid to recharge because, boo hoo, the memory echoes would be scary. No, he was afraid to recharge because --

\-- he couldn’t deal with this. He’d thought he could, but he couldn’t.

The Combaticon scrabbled after any and every distraction he could, but Overlord had planned this little solitary confinement cell very well indeed. There were nothing but walls to stare at and drones to watch.

And the plastic.

Every time his helm reached the point where it was impossible to turn further -- which wasn’t very far at all -- Vortex wondered once again about the plastic sheets wrapped around him. He could tell it was just plastic. If he was right about its origins, it was probably manufactured by humans. The blanket-stuff was poor grade plastic and small pockets of air, neither material tough enough to last a moment against him in any other situation. If he had the least bit of leverage, this cocoon-wrap would hold up all of two seconds against his fingers, but under the present circumstances? Strength meant nothing if mecha couldn’t move enough to utilize it. Lack of leverage and multiple layers were proving plastic and air to be an exceptionally resistant full-body restraint.

Also, it made noises. Primus, it made noises. Vortex fastened onto that fact with the voracious hunger of a starved Morphobot. Input! Repetitive input, but any stimulation for his audios was a blessing at this point. Wonderful, beautiful, gloriously lovely input!

The minimal movements of his hands and shoulders made the plastic squeak and crackle, albeit so quietly he had to strain to hear. He kept doing it, because causing the tiny noises was the only outlet he had for his restlessness. Crackles and squeaks were the only thing he got to hear, and he tried to limit himself to only a few wriggles per fuel cycle as if he could ration the input, savoring the small noises to make them last. 

That was exactly what he was doing, in fact. He didn’t want to get bored. He was starting to rely on the tiny noises to keep his sensors stimulated. It was a pathetic influx of data to keep himself online with, but when his only other option was system-forced recharge, well, reliance was better than stasis. 

As sparingly as he rationed out the sounds, however, they became too predictable. Background noise wasn’t stimulus. His processors, despite how he fought it and tried to stingily dole out his movements, heard the sounds too often. The link between his own motions and the resulting noises was too strong. There was no anticipation, and his gestalt links examined the sound for any significance only to dismiss it. Without some form of social interaction, his gestalt coding was unsatisfied. Without an element of unpredictability, it had little use to his external sensors, either.

Except for changes in pitch or the occasional lesser-heard sounds, the plastic-squeaks were getting tuned out. Panic crept in instead. Trapped in this room, muffled up to the visor by plastic, he was running out of ways to fulfill the requirements to prevent his stasis protocols from activating completely!

But then one of Smudge’s multiple arms came too close to him and pressed lightly on the plastic that was covering his chest. That changed _everything_.

He didn’t know why the drone deviated from the routine, didn’t know if it’d taken a step too close or if there was grit in its arm joints that prevented the arm from extending correctly. He didn’t care why. All he cared was that it changed the angle of the fuel injector’s needle. Vortex saw it coming as if in slow motion: the thin metal needle pressed in at a slightly different angle that caused it to miss the pre-made hole in the plastic wrapped around his neck. 

Anticipation seized him out of nowhere, tensing his cables into strumming tightness. He could almost _feel_ the pressure build as his sensor network went from dormant to hypersensitive in two seconds flat. His audios dialed all the up until he heard -- or perhaps just imagined himself hearing, but that was almost as good -- the teensy _squeeeek_ as the sharp tip pushed on one of the plastic blanket-thing’s air bubbles. His limbs shook inside their bindings, and the slow descent of his systems into stasis reversed so quickly rubber would have burnt if they had tires. New, this was new! It was a new sound and a new sensation, and he wanted to grab it and roll himself up in it and --

The needle pushed in, more and more, until it ruptured the taunt plastic surface.

The sharp _**POP**_ rebounded around the room, echoing off the unadorned metal walls, but it resonated so much more in the Combaticon’s head. He had never assigned a particular value to inanimate sound effects, but after days and days of blank silence, any sound at all was a miracle. The crackles and squeaks had been his only companions for weeks, it seemed. 

Hearing a sound that he hadn’t made sent a delightful almost-sensation ripple of pseudo-pleasure shivering down his body. It ran down him from his audios in a cascade effect, resetting his almost-dormant sensor network all the way down to his feet. A bright surge of feeling backwashed up his body in return. He felt only plastic and stiffened joints, but it was better than the numbness that’d been creeping up his limbs as his network prepared to go into stasis.

It wasn’t a physical touch, an actual moment of social interaction, but at this point he really wasn’t that picky. His CPU fell on the split second of input and crammed the data into any open sensor slot available. The stasis protocols paused. They didn’t shut down, but they didn’t shut _him_ down. Right now, that was a win for him.

He grasped the brief reversal and tried to do run with it. He hadn’t thought about bursting the little bubbles. Tearing the plastic, yes, of course, but that’d been a means of escape. Trying to coax another popping sound out of the blanket-thing was a different goal altogether. A terribly pathetic one, if he thought about it that way, but how much lower could he be brought? He couldn’t escape, not unless something changed, but stasis wasn’t something he could resign himself to. He had to fight it, and if dedicating himself to repeating a tiny noise was the only way, then that was what he’d do.

Creating another sound burst became his mission. He couldn’t bend his fingers enough to get any pressure on the plastic between them; the same went for all his limbs and his rotors. He actually tried to catch a bit of the plastic by retracting and closing his battle mask, but the material was too smooth to catch with the swishing plates. His nasal ridge kept the bubbles out of reach of his teeth, no matter how he tried to twist his head inside the bindings. He could _almost_ lick the plastic wrapped around his head, but not quite. He tried every variation of head tilt and mask opening/closing he could, but there wasn’t even a hint of friction to pinch the plastic. He gave up after a few more fueling cycles. 

Vortex found himself hoping he would hear the sound again. Initially, he was disgusted with himself. It was a sound. A stupid little _pop_ noise that wouldn’t even register with him under normal circumstances. Seriously, he felt vaguely ashamed of himself for how he’d leapt on the sound. It may have reactivated parts of him falling slowly into stasis, but that was because of its spontaneity. The novelty of hearing something different didn’t stop what he was hearing from being just a -- it was just a -- he’d gotten himself keyed up over a --

It was so stupid he had trouble even thinking it through the wall of bafflement his protesting mind put up. A _plastic air bubble_ had saved him. If it were something of substance, like the sound of Blast Off’s shuttle thrusters or Megatron’s voice, well, he’d still detest straining his audios for it, but at least that kind of sound had significance behind it. What significance did an air pocket have?

Gradually, the disgust drained away as the stasis protocols began taking his sensor network and system functions offline again. Okay. Okay, so a tiny, insignificant bubble had kept him from falling into stasis. That was fine! Great! Wonderful, now _please do it again._ Hope became something more desperate as fear crept up to remind Vortex that he was not exempt from its icy gnawing. None of the Combaticons had ever been willing to talk about their waking nightmare time in The Boxes, but it was manifestly still preying on the back of their minds. He, too, was scared strutless by the idea of returning. Vortex had just compensated by actively seeking the most extreme physical sensations he could and being more than a little mentally unhinged.

Lacking any ability to combat old memories with new experience, that left him dwelling on what his body was dragging him right back into: The Box. Only this one was made of his own body and some plastic. The plastic that might save him. The plastic that was full of tiny air pockets that could make a tiny, bitty _pop_ noise that he was desperately, intensely longing for. He practically prayed for it. It was probably the only thing he actively looked forward to now when the drones came, because very, very rarely, one of them would lean that tiny extra fraction somewhere. Then all his attention fastened on the needle, mentally urging the angle to change even a fraction so he could -- maybe, if he was lucky, if the needle angled enough -- hear that noise again.

All that was left for him to do in that empty room was wait for the next air pocket to get punctured. Remember the Detention Centre and the spark-box, try to erase any and all comparisons between it and his current imprisonment from his thoughts, distract himself by composing an entire novel-length story of Dent’s adventures as a drone, and wait for the next popping sound. Recharge kept smothering him, but he fought his body to stay awake, to keep his protocols at bay. The terror kept climbing for every minute of silence he had to endure.

Silence. More silence.

Every time a drone came and didn’t cause a teensy noise became punishment. Cruel and unusual punishment that Vortex nearly whimpered under as the fuel was pushed into his tubing, the needle withdrew, and the drone left again. That meant more time alone with nothing to distract him, and no input to feed his starving sensors with. 

Tick, tick downward went system status. Tick, tick upward went stasis protocols on his priority list.

Silence. Yet more silence. Endless silence.

**_POP._ **

Praise Primus and pass the ammunition, _yes!_ Yes, yes, yes! A pop, a wonderful pop! The ‘copter all but did a little jig inside his restraints out of joy whenever he got lucky enough to hear that sound. The creeping tide of non-feeling conceded an inordinately small slice of territory back to his senses, system activity kicked back up a notch, and he gloried in the -- rather flimsy victory. Over nothing, and not for long.

This was so pathetic.

But it beat sliding down into stasis, so he kept waiting for his pathetic nothing-triumph.

Silence. The drones came and punished him more often with it now. The bubbles around the hole had mostly been punctured by this time, and all of Vortex’s limited squirming couldn’t twist new bubbles into range. His droplet of salvation was drying up no matter how he grasped after it.

Into this, walked his captor. 

Vortex’s chronometer had been deactivated what seemed ages ago, but he estimated it must have been at least thirty days later when Overlord appeared again. Or maybe forty. He wasn’t sure. Fifty? He didn’t know anymore. What he _was_ sure of was that if the mecha left him alone in this blasted room again, he’d go into stasis-lock, because his processors would _melt_ from input starvation. Melt, dribble down his throat, and encase his spark in another box just like --

_Not thinking about that._

The towering Decepticon stepped into the room, and Vortex repeated his mind-numb mute staring routine. His processors took a few kliks to believe what his dulled sensors were telling him. By the time the footsteps reached the door and the door opened, he’d just begun actually hearing them as his audios sluggishly rebooted. The shape his optical sensors registered as a blurry form entering the room didn’t belong to a drone, and his audios slowly caught the subdued mechanical noises of another mecha’s body. The proximity pings that his few uncovered transmitters sent out were reporting a presence approaching on a different vector than the drones’ programmed route.

He blinked his optical sensors through half a dozen reboots, forcing them to focus. There was something new to look at. Oh, something _new_. Some _one_ new, which was even better! Statis protocols on the verge of activating plunged down his priority cue as the gestalt-denied need for social interaction scrabbled on the inside of his head like a small, trapped technimal. It felt like chunks of his core programming were being gouged out by the fiercely sharp _need_ clawing at him.

It hit him so hard that he just stared at the triple-changer for another minute once his processor did catch up, drinking in the sight of something that wasn’t this blank room. Those lips were worth some extra ogling time. Rust and iron, he could stare for ages at those lips.

Overlord looked back at him from just inside the door, an optical ridge raised as if waiting for something.

The painless aching desire for _interaction_ pounded Vortex into breaking the silence first, despite the part of him that knew it was what the triple-changer wanted. The mindfragging game wasn’t his biggest concern at this moment, however much he hated losing anything.

The Combaticon spat a bit of static to start his under-used vocalizer as his visor flared a deep red. “Overlord.” The croaked name sounded like both a greeting and an acknowledgement of defeat rolled into one word. Chalk one point up to the big-lipped spawn of a trash compactor: this had been a well-played instance of the waiting game. Vortex tried to firm his resolve to not break completely and put some defiance into his words, if not his static-filled voice. “What do you want?”

The hulking mecha had started walking towards him sedately, smiling imperceptibly at how Vortex had said his name, but he stopped at the question. Overlord looked at the rotary Decepticon, expression almost reflective as if he had to stop and ponder every ramification of the slurred words. 

Vortex fought the rampant desire to speak again. He would not cave before machine urges! He had a mind, and it controlled his body -- not the other way around! He was more than his combiner team, slag Starscream and his rebuilt body. Slag the bonds the flying scrap heap had forced on his spark, and slag the coding lodged so deeply in his head nothing would dig it out. It was craving his team so intensely he’d have hugged Swindle if he saw the fragger, but he would _not_ be so weak as to accept any substitute that walked in the room!

Yes, he wanted to see the miniscule facial shifts of someone _hearing_ him, _reacting_ to him, causing a reaction in him in turn. Just seeing someone sentient was causing his systems to practically pile on each other as they tried to come online all at once. Social interaction on the nonverbal level was still far more stimulation than he’d had in _ages_ , and his nonverbal responses in return were firing his sensor network to twitching as stiff joints and dormant limbs tingled through preliminary test cycles. Yes, of course he wanted it. That didn’t mean he had to chatter at Overlord in hopes of inducing verbal interaction. He was not. That. _Weak._

After a minute’s thought, the officer shrugged just slightly as if to say, _‘Well, I tried.’_ He turned to head back toward the door.

Vortex’s tanks bottomed out. On second thought, he was that weak. He really was.

“Nonono **no** , wait! **Don’t!** ” Vortex rasped, trying to raise his voice as much as his still-booting vocalizer would let him. “Where are you going?!” Feedback shrilled, crackling electricity in his throat as his vocalizer tried to shut down, strained too soon and too much, but he forced it to stay online. “Stop stop **stop** , smelt you!”

That strangling code-compulsion _shrieked_ , banging on the inside of his head so hard his vision fritzed. His spark rattled futilely in his chest, and hollow pits _ached_ where his sensors weren’t picking up enough input to sustain him. His gestalt links fizzled so badly they transcended pain and took on a numb flare that gave his sensors absolutely nothing to work with. His vents hiccupped, making muffled flopping sounds against the plastic as they tried to open and close. He wasn’t active enough to require his ventilation system to online. His coolant pumps were offline. He was almost room temperature. His body was a shell, and he could feel anything but the plastic smothering him further by the moment. It was a box, he was lowering down into The Box, and he couldn’t deal with this, he _couldn’t go through that again!_

He shut down his glitching visor and whined in distress. “Please...”

Every single reason he’d been clinging too in the fight against his statis protocols, against just breaking, relied on his known, measurable value to the Decepticons. He couldn’t be locked away forever, not without the rest of the Combaticons being useless as a combiner team. Bruticus was a powerhouse gestalt tough enough to take out Megatron, which was a point that Vortex had been trying to concentrate on as a positive, not a negative. Now, however, his thoughts immediately reversed that point. Megatron had always been one for holding grudges, and the ‘copter knew that he’d ticked the Supreme Commander off more and more every time he’d stirred trouble. Onslaught had tried every variation of beatings and incarceration to stop him from repeat offending, but Vortex just couldn’t stop himself. Didn’t want to stop himself, because he found such glee in causing chaos. Frustrating his commander was a side-benefit, to be honest.

Onslaught had never been able to reform him, because anything severe enough to make Vortex think twice would take him out of commission as a component of Bruticus. Take him out, and the combiner team was crippled. That’d been too high of a price, because Bruticus was too important to the war on Earth.

Until now, apparently. Vortex had just seen his value drop to nothing but an amusement. No, less than that: an irritant. This mecha obviously had no time constraints, given permission to take as long as he wished without care to the war efforts. He could and was going to leave the rotary mech wrapped in plastic bubble-stuff until there was only a stasis-locked body and helpless, terrorized mind left inside.

What was he worth, now?

Miserably convinced he’d see nothing but the door closing, he reset his visor again. He flinched inside his own armor, a garbled blurt of surprise escaping him because, instead of the door, a massive black hand filled his vision.

One of Overlord’s extended fingers approached his visor. The tip of the digit hovered right in front of the top of his visor, stopping just short of actually touching him. The triple-changer’s face was an undistinguished blur behind it as all of Vortex’s attention fastened onto that fingertip. 

It radiated heat. The air around the much larger Decepticon sucked heat from the mecha’s body, and his vents liberally dispersing it into the room. The contrast in temperature bit like frost forming where it met Vortex. It wasn’t that Overlord was so hot; Vortex’s body had simply shut down that far. Sensation-starved sensors clamored, almost painfully registering the temperature difference where heated air currents brushed past his exposed helm. The pressure sensors under the glass of his visor teased on the very _edge_ of registering something. There weren’t even many sensors present, but every one rocketed online and stood hyperaware, more than ready for duty.

The Combaticon was acutely aware of the tiny gap between his visor and the finger held before it, and he could just barely feel his own electromagnetic field brush against the warm, living energy field that enveloped Overlord’s hand. That -- ohhh. That, he didn’t need a sensor-dense surface area to feel. That, his circuitry could absorb. That, his coding strained for. Body language cause and response, yes; verbal interaction, okay; physical stimulus?

Please. He hadn’t had that in so long that something deep under his conscious mind screeched like a metallic beast that would consume him if that hand didn’t move just a fraction closer and give it what it _needed_.

His neck instinctively leaned forward against the infernal plastic, trying to get closer to the source of heat and electricity and, oh Primus, he _needed_ the contact now or he’d go _mad_!

The foreign EM field flared, lapping in taunting wavelets against red glass coated in desperation. The ‘coptor whined again, a sound more bestial than intelligent. 

“What was that, Vortex?” Overlord asked in a languid drawl, moving his finger in a slow circle that the trapped mecha’s head tried to follow.

Vortex stilled, cold realization knocking his inner needy creature temporarily down. Chill horror skimmed over his visor, and a soft chuckle answered it when that finger dipped just close enough to feel it -- and to remind the ‘copter what was at stake. The Combaticon knew what was being asked of him, and what the answer was. 

A raw mouthful of rage stuck in his throat, clogging his intake and nearly causing a coughing fit as it burned its way down. The filthy parasite of a garbage-eating scraplet was good. Really fragging good. Maybe, however much he choked on the knowledge, better than he was.

With that question, the helicopter understood just how he’d been set up. The mecha smirking down at him with his smug optics and plump lips had been slowly preparing him for this since the first day. The room, the time, the bubble plastic stuff, the drones, all of it had been part of the mindfrag. All the set-up, just so the words Overlord wanted to hear would be uttered honestly.

Vortex could objectively appreciate the artful technique. Orchestrating a game with this many levels required an amount of planning and patience he had to admire, which only made him acutely aware that he was the losing player. Overlord had won. Even now, knowing exactly what other Decepticon was doing, Vortex looked at that fingertip not quite touching his visor and knew that he would still beg. Was _going to_ beg. 

Another smug chuckle, and that EM field flirted just close enough that Vortex’s vocalizer made an involuntary sound of pure longing. The lips behind the hand that’d become Vortex’s world curved in a satisfied smile. The reminder had been unnecessary. They both knew the ‘copter was going to beg, but Overlord’s powerful electromagnetic signature swelled enough to lick over him again just to really rub defeat in.

The Combaticon reset his visor and stared bleakly, anger losing the battle to the gestalt coding sucking him down like quicksand. He couldn’t fight it. He couldn’t win, because an incomprehensible coldness numbed his frame, dulling his sensors and shutting down his body. His spark withered away, small and trapped inside him, separated from his functions to a degree that emptied him out. His gestalt-mates were so far away their bond only whispered information, the bare minimum of data about their continued functioning. Those stats never changed, informing him they were alive and nothing else.

He had been unmoving and silent for what felt like years now, locked down to a prisoner inside his own body. It all added up to something so very different but somehow scarily similar to what The Box had felt like. That almost made him seize with panic even when doing his best not to think about it. He couldn’t go through that again. He _couldn’t_.

Yes, he was going to beg. He would beg an entire cycle if it would keep the isolation at bay. Knowing how he’d been manipulated to this point did nothing to make him less desperate.

Vortex gritted his teeth behind the mask, glared at the expectant look playing over the other mecha’s face, and forced it out: “Please.”

“Please what, Vortex?” Overlord asked in the sweetly chiding tone of someone talking down to a newly activated frame.

This was as bad as when Megatron had ordered the reactivated, reprogrammed Combaticons to their knees before him the first time. Fighting the gestalt code was as futile as trying to go against the loyalty programming. They would both crush him down in the end. “Please, don’t leave,” scraped out one humiliating syllable at a time. The rotary mecha quivered with rage, but the words came out flattened of all emotion. 

The larger Decepticon looked down at him, still expectant but theatrically tired. Ho hum, just a bored spectator waiting for a show to start. The expression morphed into something nastier as the ‘copter failed to perform the song and dance the officer seemed to expect. The full lips twisted, and that world-encompassing hand filling Vortex’s vision began to withdraw.

“Please, **Overlord** **_sir!_** ” Vortex screamed, his EM field spiking off his plating as sheer panic sent his circuitry crackling excess energy. Uncontrollable terror boiled over inside him. It ran down the inside of his chest and scorched his spark, and no no _no_ , not The Box, anything but The Box -- !

Overlord paused, savoring the gibbering fear for a torturously lengthy moment. The smaller Decepticon’s EM field groped after him in blind panic until the triple-changer deigned to bend towards him again. This time, the pleased chuckle got a look of stark relief in return. The rage had evaporated as if it never was, and the Combaticon strained toward that smug laughter because it wasn’t going away. Overlord wasn’t abandoning him to his statis protocols and shrieking gestalt code, and that was all that mattered.

“Ahh. There we are,” his captor and tormentor crooned. Such a good prisoner, broken to heel. Look at him sit up and beg on command! “It’s good to see you are finally learning manners, Vortex.” 

As he spoke, the amused officer touched the very tip of his finger’s friction pad to the rim of the red visor. The helicopter went completely rigid, transfixed by the tiny spot of contact, and one side of the triple-changer’s sculpted lips turned up in a satisfied smile. The fingertip slid, gracing the glass with the lightest of pressures as it followed the visor’s edge, accompanied by the hushed hiss of metal on glass.

Vortex had been prepared for his sensor nodes to go trigger-happy on his network after the amount of time they’d spent inactive, but he most definitely had not been prepared for the surge of warmth that spread like wildfire from a simple touch. His own circuitry sparked and blazed as the light swipe of that finger transmitted energy and physical heat to stasis-chilled systems that’d been deprived for far too long. It kicked his cortex’s priority queue, reminding the systems on it that they should be living instead of slowly deactivating. A wave of shameful relief made his pumps stall, and his engine gurgled as it tried to turn over. He was so, so relieved to feel any kind of temperature increase after the cold, but the true pleasure came from his gestalt programming. 

That blasted _programming_ and its connected subset of coding beneath standard operating code all but sobbed with relief at the contact of another living mecha. Overlord felt _hot_ , his metal alive and breathing the electromagnetic energy the ‘copter had once taken for granted. That finger felt -- it felt -- it was _alive_. That careless touch encapsulated the interaction he’d been craving, everything his gestalt-bond _needed_. If it couldn’t have his team, then it would seize any substitute. That single finger was alive in a way that the drones could only mimic, and Vortex hadn’t know exactly what he was missing until he got this sample. Just a sample, a too-brief taste, and he ached for more.

That only made it more terrible. It was like give his fuel tanks a bare sip of real energon after trying to survival-adapt to a hydro-electric power core instead. It upset his attempts at adapting to the horrible isolation and landed him squarely back where he’d started. It wasn’t like he’d been making any progress whatsoever, but the back of his head had been coming around, glacially slow, to a despairing sort of surrender to eventual stasis-lock. Mecha could only soak in nightmares for so long before the edge of terror wore off.

But not if the nightmare were given fresh fuel to restart the fear with. Overlord’s touch had reawakened dormant systems and reset the countdown, and Vortex was _terrified._

It made him feel dreadfully weak and desperate for more. This wasn’t the kind of fight that could be fought by weaponry or even his own deranged brand of mental combat. This was a battle fought beneath his conscious mind, where his own machine code undermined every attempt his higher thought processes made. He _needed_ on a level deeper than mere fuel-hunger or physical addiction. Addictions could be broken. Starving for energon could be dealt with as an exercise in pain and energy conservation. This, however. This punched in below his control and took over his body by subverting his mind. Resistance broke before it could be mounted. He struggled uselessly, trying to follow after the hand when it left his visor, and he couldn’t even feel humiliated when that pitiful whine came from his throat again.

Vortex needed; please, his body ached and _throbbed_ with a need only interaction could sate. Interaction, social interaction, the unpredictable and predictable give and take of dealing with someone outside his head. He wanted sounds, he wanted touches, he wanted it all, but what he wanted most was just the responses drawn out from reacting to another living being. The simple skim of Overlord’s energy field over his own had seared into his mind that the drones could never give him what he needed, now. He’d been settling for their input because it was all he’d had, but now his famished coding had latched on to what could be available if only he bent and broke and did whatever it’d take to get anything, anything this mecha decided to grant him.

Overlord didn’t speak. The triple-changer just gazed down at him, waiting for...something. Something unknown, some standard Vortex had to meet or he’d leave again. The ‘copter knew it. Now that the fragger knew that the waiting game would truly break him, he wouldn’t hesitate to continue using it against the bound Combaticon. That’s what a good interrogator _did_ : find the weak spot and exploit it for all it was worth. In this case, Overlord wasn’t interrogating him, but that didn’t change the strategy. Find button. Push until victim’s will collapsed. Take what was wanted.

If only he knew what in the Unmaker’s name the big-lipped rustbucket wanted! The aching isolation and _cold_ loomed in Vortex’s immediate future if he couldn’t figure that out. The idea of more uncountable days in solitary confinement was too much like The Box to bear, and memory-fueled panic raced through his lines. The metal beast of base needs clawed at the back of his head as he frantically thought, discarding solutions even as they occurred to him. 

All he had to work with was that Overlord didn’t approve of insolence. He’d commented on Vortex ‘learning manners.’ Basically, he approved of his captive acknowledging him as lord and master via verbal prostration.

Pride was laughable when placed up against what he faced. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d bent his neck before someone when given no other choice. At least Starscream wasn’t here sneering at him from behind Megatron’s shoulder this time. It was a dose of bitter humility, but compared to the alternative?

A shiver went down his rotor blades inside their plastic packaging. Bodily imprisonment no different than The Box.

Begging pardon like a bad little prisoner who’d learned the error of his ways it was, then.

“Overlord, **sir** \-- “ he started, intending to play the humble game, but those exaggerated lips turned down. The small sign of disapproval had him shutting up before he really thought about why.

That black hand rose, but this time the finger touched gently to Overlord’s lips in a mocking _’shhhh’_ gesture. It was juvenile and stupid -- who shushed a Decepticon warrior? -- but Vortex’s visor had fastened on the slight movement. He froze and stared eagerly just in case it was toward him, but no. There was the silent order and nothing else. Not that anything else was necessary. Immature as it was, the signal was unmistakable.

Panic swelled up in him. What…what was he supposed to do if not speak? The plastic blanket thing kept him from any other action!

He couldn’t endure another round of waiting. Even clinging to this large instance of input and interaction wouldn’t stop his sluggish systems from slowly shutting down again. No matter how disgusted he was with the blinding blast of fear that’d brought him to this point, he knew he’d do whatever this triple-changing lead-brained twit wanted him to do, but _what was he supposed to do?_ He couldn’t play along with the game if he didn’t know the rules!

Everything he could think of to say to persuade the other Decepticon to stay would violate that one stipulation: no talking. He was deathly afraid breaking that known rule would lead to being immediately abandoned. With that weighing on his mind, he didn’t even dare beg again.

He kept his mouth shut and stared in mute appeal at the mecha standing motionless before him. The silence was oppressive. Even though Overlord was standing in the same room as him, the quietness compressed the ‘copter inside his plastic bubble-roll. He _needed_ to interrupt the silence, _needed_ more than an impassive observer watching him struggle to stay silent. He didn’t know what Overlord wanted, slag the fragger’s treads! If he could just get a clue -- but the urge to outright ask clashed up against unreasonable terror he couldn’t control. 

Clicking, mechanical fear from the gestalt programming rose like an inescapable tide in his head every time he tried to force his mouth to open. The chill flood drowned his attempts to outthink the mindfrag. It just wanted him to do whatever this source of heat and life desired. No outplaying, no trying to slip around the rules; just submission and surrender. It knew that the last time he had said a single thing, the other mecha had almost left. Therefore, the bestial hindbrain machine code refused to let his higher thought processes open his mouth.

The Combaticon held on as panic frayed his already lost composure. His main processors pinged his logic centers repeatedly for reassurance on why he wasn’t talking now now _now_. He needed input, had to have input; any kind of stimulus had to be acquired through any means necessary. _Why was he not talking?!_

An abject whine of starved _need_ eased out from between clenched teeth, almost soft enough to be a whimper. Having someone standing there without letting him interact in any way was torment. Sheer, undiluted torment.

His frame was starting to vibrate by the time the taller Decepticon seemed to see what he’d been waiting for. One hand lifted back toward Vortex’s face, and to the helicopter’s shame, he couldn’t stop himself from straining against the plastic toward it. A sad little moan came from his vocalizer when the hand stopped on the outermost layer wrapped around him instead of continuing on to touch him again. Please, please, touch him again!

“Well done,” Overlord rumbled, lips richly curved in self-satisfied mockery, and two enormous fingers singled out a teensy bubble.

And slowly squeezed. Vortex tensed into a statue inside the blanket roll-thing, every active sensor trained on that tiny air pocket and its taunt plastic walls. The thin plastic had to give, but there was no way to know when. This was nothing like the drones. Vortex had worked out the simple equation between the force behind the drones’ needles and the strength of the plastic. The surprise that had kept his systems afloat had ceased to work, but this? Overlord was squeezing and releasing, intentionally teasing him, and he had _no idea_ when the burst would come. Statis protocols plummeted to the bottom of his processor queues as every system snapped total attention, spinning his network rapidly online past the furthest point he’d managed on his own.

He was whimpering steadily, visor downturned as far as the tight layers of plastic would allow his neck to bend, and he could just barely see from the bottom of his vision as the fingers squished the bubble delicately. “Do you want it?” Overlord asked, and the question was couched in a husky voice that promised fulfillment. That promised the squeezing would follow through, and the rotary mech would get his reward.

Vortex’s whimpers became short, subvocal pleas panted out with every heavy in/ex-vent cycle now supporting his riled systems. The _need_ chained his vocalizer offline, forcefully obedient to the order given, but those black fingers pinched and made the plastic squeal quietly until desperation broke even the helicopter’s machine core. “Yes! Yes yes yes!”

“Ah-ah,” he was scolded. “Do mind your manners, Vortex. I would hate for that lesson to be repeated.”

The Combaticon’s vocalizer harshly squawked feedback as it cut out. No. No, re-teaching that lesson wasn’t required.

Those mesmerizing lips curved, but Vortex couldn’t look away from the air pocket rolled so delicately between Overlord’s thumb and forefinger. “Do you want it?”

It took him a second to gather enough wits to compose an answer he thought would please the sadist. “Yes, Overlord sir.” He swallowed, unable to look away, and the words poured out in a low, agonized groan. “Oh yes, please.”

Of course that wasn’t sufficient to ensure he’d been humbled. “How much?”

“Overlord sir.” He couldn’t even pretend he was only playing along to humor the Pit-slag smelter reject. No, Vortex wanted that fragging bubble so much he almost couldn’t see straight for the noiseless shrieking of his coding rattling about his head. “I want it so much, please,” he said with painful sincerity. “Please, Overlord sir.”

“Hmm. I do reward progress and obedience. Remember this lesson, and you may not need to experience how I punish…forgetfulness.” The warning came laden with amusement, because the glazed reflection of overbright optical sensors behind red visor glass indicated that Vortex had pretty much stopped hearing anything past _’I do reward’._

Reward, yes, he deserved a reward. He’d been a good prisoner and done the song and dance his captor demanded. That tiny bubble bulged as it compressed ever-so-slowly, and Vortex gasped in a deep breath to hold, waiting. Please, yes, this time. No more teasing. Overlord’s fingers were too powerful to --

_**POP.** _

That. That _sound_.

A wave of instant gratification sheeted down the Combaticon’s quivering body and gushed hotly through his mind, nearly strong enough to melt his joints into liquid, shaking release. His audios and optical sensors shut off to better facilitate every single sensor turning inward to dissect that sound, that absolutely perfect moment of _satisfaction_ that ran down his whole body like the electric release of the best overload he’d ever imagined experiencing. It felt strangely similar, but more. More addictive, more pervasive and stronger; a fulfillment beyond the mere physical sensation that would have left his body sated and his mind still yearning. No, this was an all-encompassing climax, and the warm afterglow making his machine code purr contentedly was almost as sweet.

The anticipation had built up and up, but it’d been worth it, so worth it. The bubble had popped and delivered every bit of the promised reward. 

A strange, hitching moan seeped from his throat in a long, low sound of bliss -- followed closely by a confused, questioning noise.

Vortex reactivated his visor and stared in complete puzzlement at the triple-changer. What...had just happened, here?

His confusion didn’t last long. The Decepticon officer graced him with another smug smile and turned, and then all the helicopter could think about was Overlord’s back as it left him in the room. 

Again. By himself. In the silence and solitude.  
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That bubble…(by Shibara).


	7. Chapter 7

**0 0 Part Seven 0 0**

 

After exiting his makeshift ‘guest room’, Overlord descended back into the main levels of the base via the stairs. They were more time-consuming than a lift, but more efficient in terms of energy consumption. Since the outpost currently only had two occupants, repowering the lifts hardly seemed necessary.

He didn’t mind. The walk to and from the upper level gave him an opportunity to truly relish the little Combaticon’s reactions. He strode down the halls, hands clasped behind his back, and smirked to himself as he walked. Poor Vortex. The helicopter knew all the tricks of torture and interrogation. He’d probably thought he could hold out by bending around the rules of the game, but no. No, Overlord did his research, and he knew how to change the rules so that there was no bending. 

Overlord’s victims never had a chance, but he did so enjoy how each one resisted breaking. Setting up the right canvas meant all the boundaries were placed and permanent, and his latest pet project certainly wasn’t going to be the one who managed to escape. No, once the frame was constructed, it was only a matter of filling in the right setting for a proper breaking. 

If Vortex were a garden, all the unwanted growth had just been hacked back. Burning out the previous tangle of weeds, really, that’s what subduing his attitude and insolence really boiled down to. Now that Overlord had eradicated the root system, it was just a matter of pulling particularly stubborn bits of personality out and letting his own plantings take over the plot.

The vacationing officer walked unhurriedly towards the room he’d taken as his own, pondering how he’d shape his latest hobby victim and smiling absently to himself as he walked. When he reached the room, he filled a small cube from the high grade sent from Shockwave’s personal distillery. A nice touch, he thought, acknowledging the, ah, ‘care’ he’d taken in his last assignment. There hadn’t been a single survivor when he’d been through. 

He swirled the energon in the cube and sipped from it, expression content. He didn’t have much use for the Decepticon Cause, but the campaigns and violence? Ah, those he enjoyed. Wholesale violence never ceased to entertain.

It’d been somewhat unexpected to be rewarded for his dedication to furthering his own goals by serving the Cause, but he was hardly going to complain. It was nice to take a break from battle to focus on one project. Downtime between battlefield massacres was refreshing, especially when there were ready amusements at hand.

He took a datapad from the rows that filled the shelves along one of the walls, and then sprawled on a chair for some leisure reading. Shockwave’s reading material held a wealth of pleasant surprises, most notably the closed files from the Iaconian Enforcers and reports to the Senate about the gladiatorial rings. Overlord was finding those quite enjoyable.

After a few moments, however, he lifted his optics from the screen and thoughtfully tilted his head. The sound that had followed him from the upper levels had stopped. His audios strained, dialing up to search for the thin thread of noise. He didn’t want to miss a moment. It was his favorite background music.

Far above, Vortex started howling again.

Overlord smiled and settled into the chair more comfortably, taking another swig from the cube.

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	8. Chapter 8

**0 0 Part Eight 0 0**

 

It was deep-code instinct. The kind of coding that supported systems, not the actual programs that ran them. It was machine operation code woven through the structure of what made him _him_. It was that hidden system cradle formed by every bit of the ubiquitous gestalt-bond, his autonomic sensor-network software, and his base-coding. Along with a bunch of dark little things he probably wouldn’t realize affected him until they were tweaked.

Vortex knew those were the things Overlord was manipulating, and he _hated_ it. All of it: Overlord, himself, his fragging machine weaknesses, the plastic blanket-thing, the blank-walled room, the drones -- all of it! 

Because it was totally outside of his control. The thing about machine-level coding was that it took a medic to root out inherent problems. Mecha themselves couldn’t analyze errors below the processor level, not without external help. Where computer interface met programming; yes, that whole area could be gone over line by line. It was a nigh-unbearable headache and prone to causing more problems than it fixed, but it was possible. Analyzing the body’s root code? Not so much.

Programming itself adapted quickly, because that’s what Cybertronians were built to do. The slower, less advertised but just as utilized adaptation happened below the visible level where mecha didn’t generally realize it was happening. Code kept up with function. So if Vortex’s function had changed to being a stasis-bound lump of useless, bubble-wrapped limbs, then his coding would adapt to it. He’d mostly preventing his programming from nose-diving into screwy errors by fighting the stasis protocols tooth and rotor blade, but his gestalt-bond was both hardware and software. He wasn’t capable of fighting it, and it’d been busily shifting about in the back of his head while he’d been concentrating on just keeping the sensor network online in his hands. He hadn’t realized what his deep-code was up to until his body revolted against his conscious mind and threw him under Overlord’s feet.

The whole mess of plastic, solitary confinement, and time had combined here and now into an unstoppable force that ground him into the floor. Everything had come together, elegantly crafted by that aft-kisser Overlord to make him want and need things he wouldn’t want or need in any other situation. The uniquely bizarre physical restraint and isolation had resulted in near-total input starvation unmatched in any case he could recall. The time involved had likely been the deciding factor, or the distance from his gestalt. Both were something mecha belonging to a combiner team apparently couldn’t handle. For a while, perhaps, but not for…however long he’d been trapped here. Too long.

While any mecha stuck in solitary confinement for months would emerge a needy glitch grasping after any shred of social interaction offered, Vortex was a Combaticon. The gestalt-rebuild had remodeled him from the spark out, changing him in ways he couldn’t control. The Combaticons as a unit had come to grips with being gestalt-linked together, but they were still discovering just what that _meant_. Overlord was kindly using this opportunity to introduce Vortex to some previously unthought-of complications.

For Vortex, the gestalt meant a gaping lack in his spark. It was a craving _ache_ he’d never experienced before. He needed. He _needed_ , and the need subjugated him. His gestalt, parts and program and support code alike, had rewritten itself to accept any input as a substitute -- anything at all -- because the alternative was screeching as he suffered painless craving that kept building. The way the sucking void kept dragging more powerfully with every moment of deprivation, he had the sinking feeling he’d grab a weapon to blow his own head off if substitutions couldn’t ease the ache a little. So _technically_ , because he wasn’t normally suicidal, he had to acknowledge this was a better solution. Allowing other input to substitute for what his gestalt-bond wailed for was better than death.

But the substitution allowance resulted in his coding _needing_ interaction the same way Vortex _needed_ not to return to the Box. That was bad enough, but it was also far more unreasonable about it. The ‘copter had thought his terror over watching his body fall into stasis-lock had been fairly senseless, but not compared to the primitive metal creature his code had become.

It just pursued an end to its needy ache without care to what he actually thought about its antics. Because the only way to fulfill the hollow, hungry need -- and it _had_ to be fulfilled, it _had to be_ , Primus help him, he couldn’t _stop_ the constant torment otherwise -- was to surrender, and that was exactly what all this was about: the loss of control

Every time that plush-lipped fragger came into the room, Vortex’s logic hubs faltered, higher thought processes stuttering to a muddled halt. His processors, overpowered by primitive machine-level urges, simply took his mind out of the pilot’s seat and handed things over to the hands of his most basic software. Because that was what would fill the _need_ , grant him his paltry gestalt-substitute, and therefore that’s what his body _did_.

That was the awful part, of course. He was losing control of himself, mind and body. Not to the scrap-waste Decepticon that had wrapped him in plastic and left him to be fed by drones and rot in silence, oh no. Overlord was good. Vortex could grudgingly admit that through the hatred when his sentience dribbled out his audios and his body followed his captor’s every whim and command. Overlord knew that there were ways to break someone externally, but that was too simplistic and too easy to reverse. No, the plastic bubble-blanket thing was the means, the isolation a way, but Vortex had finally seen the wheel he was being broken on.

Overlord stood politely aside, infuriating lips curved in the most condescending of small smiles, and let Vortex lose control to _himself_.

The helicopter writhed, helpless and enraged inside his cocoon, and fought a losing battle to keep a grip on himself. His higher functions knew the game. He knew what Overlord was doing. The _rest_ of him, however, was a robotic lifeform that had adapted to circumstances. His internal metal beast didn’t care about grim determination, or bending instead of breaking. And that was the part that kept paralyzing his mind, because it had perfectly clear ideas of what it wanted. 

It knew what it wanted, and what it wanted was to fill in the terrible missing portions of its spark and vital functions. It was going to make him do _anything_ to get its stand-ins. It wanted the tiny stroke of physical contact, the almost-not-there touch on his helm that stimulated his sensors just enough that stasis protocols stayed offline. It wanted the _feel_ of another electromagnetic field, hot and alive although not bleeding from circuitry it truly desired. It wanted…

Oh, frag him, frag his body and mind, because even hating himself for it, there was a niggling part of his conscious mind that agreed. It had been so _long_ here on his own, and -- and smelt him, the wriggling metal beast that was Vortex needed the _POP_.

That teensy noise sent him shuddering every time. It was the culmination of every smidgeon of input Overlord graciously gave him, and it was ridiculous how badly the Combaticon needed it. His deep-code wanted that taste of interaction like a starving mech wanted to lick an energon goodie held just out of reach, because if that was all it could get, then it would slagging well crawl and beg and cry to get that lick. It wanted the touch, the bubble, and everything they represented without actually being. It wanted those things, only so much harder and just...more. It ached, throbbed, called, and cried every single moment, eroding his willpower to nothing. As much as Vortex fought his primal machine urges, the cored-out feeling undermined him with unbridled _need_.

The need held him silent, now. Even though he wanted to shout, rant, and rave at the triple-changer circling him like a Sharkticon looking for the right place to bite, he was silent. He’d been shushed, so he was silent. In response to his obedient silence, Overlord stopped his pacing and languidly extended a hand. Vortex’s visor brightened, his rotors trembling like tinfoil in their bindings as he watched. Eagerly, hungrily, he watched. Smelt his landing gear and strip him for parts, he couldn’t fragging well look away.

The hand paused, of course. Vortex’s torment wouldn’t be complete without a test, after all, and the helicopter had to stuff down the impatient shout that wanted to leap out. _’Gimme!’_ smoked off his EM field like a beacon of greed.

No. No, patience. He’d tried the shouting, and look what that’d gotten him: days alone. No, he knew better than that, now. Whines were acceptable, even the odd whispered plea, but anything louder or ruder would only earn him the sight of a broad, blue-grey back as Overlord turned and sauntered out the door to leave him to suffer. Speaking out of turn was unacceptable behavior in his captor’s optics, and therefore it was not an option for Vortex.

Immeasurable hours of isolation had turned the Combaticon’s willpower to tissue paper. It was a ghastly punishment just for how simple it was. All Overlord had to do was turn and walk away, and Vortex would be effectively crushed to a whining bundle of base code desperate to grovel its way back into the large Decepticon’s good graces. Vortex’s programming would backlash aching disappointment through him in a numb, burning twist of self-loathing and _need need need_. Abandonment made him that much more of a whimpering puddle of neediness when he was finally blessed with the triple-changer’s presence again, and his deep-code wouldn’t even give him a chance to act before kicking him into the back of his cortex to watch his own breaking happen.

His conscious mind was aware of it happening, but he couldn’t stop his internal machine-beast from rolling to show Overlord its vulnerable belly. The warlord didn’t even have to do anything. He just had to turn on a heel as if to leave, and he had the ‘copter by the throat.

The resultant abject pleas weren’t enough, however. Not for Overlord. No, the lesson the whimpering creature crouched in Vortex’s bound body learned from repeated abandonment was that repenting for a transgression wouldn’t bring mercy. The transgression needed to not happen in the first place. The subconscious living machine had to seize control earlier in order to prevent offending Overlord at all. It had to overpower Vortex’s higher thought processes more quickly, and that was the ruthless lesson Vortex dreaded. That lesson was the one truly bringing him to his knees.

And Vortex swore that the times between visits lengthened whenever he misbehaved. That just made the ache _worse_. The worse the ache, the less control he had. The only way to keep what little he still had was to comply before the fragging _need_ took over. The only way to do that was to obey Overlord consciously before the well-trained, needy creature inside him didn’t give him a choice in the matter.

Therefore, no shouting. No demands, no threats, and no insults. None of those impacted Overlord in the slightest. The mecha had no obligation to return, and he certainly didn’t care about anything his powerless victim could do. The only thing the officer cared about, so far as Vortex could tell, was teaching Vortex obedience. Complete and total obedience, and it obviously wasn’t worth his time to do hands-on discipline when his standards weren’t met. Solitary confinement worked so well as a reprimand, after all.

Vortex and his greedy internal code-beast of needs and wants were at constant war because they had _learned_. They had learned -- or more accurately, they had been _taught_ , and Vortex most profoundly _did not like_ what they’d been taught. Because he _had_ been taught to obey, even if it were only a matter him choosing to obey instead of being forced. That didn’t change the fact that he was still obeying.

Nothing he could do would change anything. He was given only what Overlord decided to give him, and that was entirely up to the other Decepticon’s whim. Over the course of the passing unmeasured time and the endless, repetitive visitations, Vortex had had that lesson pounded through his stubborn head. He fought accepting it, but even as he railed against himself, the code-deep needy _ache_ that controlled him meekly internalized the lesson.

Nothing but obedience mattered in this room.

So he obeyed. He stayed silent, waiting as he’d been taught until Overlord gave a minute nod of approval and extended his hand forward that final distance. Despite how he hated himself for it, the Combaticon did his level best to lunge forward to meet it. His visor flickered briefly offline as his sensors dedicated the energy toward _feeling_ every last iota of input when a single fingertip gave his helm the tiniest caress ever known to the Cybertronian race.

As always, it didn’t last more than three seconds -- why yes, he _had_ timed it -- and left Vortex buzzing. His body thrummed inside the plastic blanket-thing with a sense of glee and unfulfilled frustration he had never known before this place. 

If he’d felt this sensation anywhere else, he’d have found someone to fight or interface until it went away. It was a feeling that had to _go_ somewhere, but instead, it was contained. Contained, and curbed, and turned in on itself until Vortex squirmed inside his own armor. It turned him inside out and _did_ things to him that he couldn’t stop.

The approving smile widened, and his squirming became disgustingly eager at the sight. He’d been good. He’d been so good, what with not speaking and waiting instead of demanding. Now, because he’d been good, Overlord would let him demonstrate how well he’d learned respect under the officer’s tutelage. And if he was polite enough, if he adequately displayed how well he’d learned, Overlord would reward him for it.

Overlord used his fingertips to gently catch a plastic bubble, and Vortex absolutely loathed the excited, wriggling part of himself that could not _wait_ to show the bigger Decepticon what a good subordinate he’d become. He waited for permission from his officer, futilely stomping on the yearning that drove him to do exactly as he was told. He hated but couldn’t take his visor away from the bubble. He wanted, needed, undeniably _had to have_ it.

He silently railed against the bubble he desperately craved, but he stayed obediently silent. Overlord rolled the fragile air pocket between massive fingers. The Combaticon twitched spastically at every delicate _squeeka_ noise. This wasn’t over yet, of course. No, first the triple-changer’s pet project had to demonstrate how much progress had been made. A reward couldn’t come without cause, after all, so here came the really humiliating part. This was the part that had Vortex shrieking inside, fighting to deny what he manifestly _needed_. This was the part that he always lost, and lost again right now.

“Do you want **it**?” Overlord inquired solicitously. His full lips smiled warm friendliness, as if he’d asked something benign, something normal, and Vortex felt compelled to answer. 

“Yes,” the Combaticon said quietly. “Yes, please.” More words tried to activate his vocalizer, tried to blurt out, and he clenched his jaw. No, no, not this time. He didn’t want to, he didn’t _have_ to; he could stop right there! He had to answer, and he knew how to answer. He’d been perfectly polite. He knew that was what was required. He’d answered the bare minimum, but that’s all he _had_ to say!

More words still pushed out. What singed his pride into scorched rags was the fact that Overlord never once demanded he answer this way, not since that first time chiding him on his manners. Vortex just said the extra words now because part of him was too terrified that he wouldn’t get _it_ if he didn’t. Machine-level _ache_ tore the words out of him like a plea: 

“Yes, Overlord sir. Oh yes, please. I want it so much, please.”

The mecha that now filled his vision -- and his hearing, and, frag, his sense of smell, too -- chuckled merrily as if told a most amusing joke. He looked down at the plastic-wrapped helicopter, making sure to meet his visor with gloating optics, and let the moment linger. The pause served no purpose but to grind into the humiliated Decepticon what precisely had just happened.

Every time, Overlord came into this room and asked him only that one question: “Do you want **it**?” That was all, and that made the ‘copter bristle anxiously. He knew, and Overlord knew he knew, what was being done to him.

The question was a horrible thing because it never changed. Asking anything else would have meant that this was going somewhere. This, though; this was just training. It was repetition to train a desired response into a subject -- namely, Vortex. It was the same question, the same routine, every time. Like the bare room and the plastic, it was meant to warp his basic functions’ code until it -- it being Vortex’s body, and therefore the mind yelling protest inside it -- responded exactly as desired.

Not because Overlord wanted to hear him beg for personal amusement (okay, there was probably a big dose of that unless Vortex had completely missed his guess about what kind of mecha Overlord was), but because he wanted Vortex to hear himself force the truth out again and again. The repetition was wearing a response/reaction groove down through the Combaticon’s deprived gestalt-bond so deep he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to root it out again. The ‘copter knew what kind of manipulation that was, and how it was being used to train him. That didn’t make it any less effective. Not when Vortex’s deep-code jumped on command and was _such_ a good machine-beast, all for a droplet of strictly-limited interaction.

That accursed bubble haunted Vortex’s recharge, now. He dreamt of the sound of plastic bursting. He had nightmares about it, too.

His tension was equal parts expectation and fury. He knew what was coming, because it’d happened just like this so many times now. It was routine. The large digits pressed slowly until the noise, that wonderful and terrible noise, broke the silence: _**POP.**_

And the noise made him feel _good_. Deliciously, ludicrously, _good_ on a level that had absolutely nothing to do with what Vortex wanted. Now, like every time he heard that sound, the pseudo-physical pleasure of new sensation washed through him. It tingled under his plating from helm to feet, and ohhh. It was _good_ , so _good_. 

He hated his body for loving that sound, because he did not want it, but he deeply, passionately _needed_ it. It had everything to do with what his core systems needed, far beneath the level of his conscious mind.

Worse yet, worse than knowing he shut off his visor, shuddered, and moaned in front of this sadistic frag-rag of a ‘Con, worse than reacting so strongly to a faint sound of air and plastic and pressure -- no, worse yet was how the wave of relief felt like a reward. It splashed over his spark in a release of tension that felt...like he’d earned it. Like his silent, hateful submission had somehow earned something worthwhile.

Every time the short training routine finished, Overlord waited until the blissful shivering stopped and the helicopter’s visor blinked back on. Only then did he step back and, without another word, exit the room. His prisoner mournfully watched him go.

Then, as always, the horrible loneliness settled in around Vortex once more. That was the worst part of the whole cycle. The Combaticon’s systems handed his logic hubs back to his writhing consciousness, and _ugh_. A sickening pang of humiliation shot through him at the degree of cooperation he’d once again stooped to. He couldn’t stop himself from begging anymore than he could stop the aching _need_ that’d made him submit, but that didn’t make it feel any better afterward. 

The ill clutch in his tanks lingered because even once he was back in control of himself, he still couldn’t help but _want_ to submit. That was the truly masterful stroke in all this. He was very well aware that the code-beast lurking under his thoughts wanted to fling itself at Overlord’s feet. Vortex knew that the moment that fragging Decepticon triple-changing glitch came into the room again, all he’d want to do was obey. 

It was becoming very clear how he’d been stripped of control and conditioned to react. When he disobeyed, there would be abandonment, maddening _need_ , and the stasis protocols creeping up his queue. When he obeyed, there would be the brief, hot touch that kept the Detention Centre box away from his thoughts, and that bubble. Oh, that bubble. That wonderful reward to make his frame tremble in delight and his mind recoil in hate.

This time as every time, he raged against the facts of his situation in desperation and despair, but he couldn’t do anything to change them.

And Overlord came more and more frequently now.

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	9. Chapter 9

**0 0 Part Nine 0 0**

 

Overlord settled back in his seat and looked at the screen displaying his pet project. The Combaticon was being attended to by one of the drones. He had reversed the drones’ programmed responses as soon as he’d begun the hands-on portion of the training, so Vortex was getting nothing from the current drone but fuel. The ‘glitches’ that’d caused the drones’ arms to wobble and prick their needles into the plastic had been carefully planned, and there was no longer any need for them. Now that the Combaticon’s programming had been primed and fastened onto the bubble sounds as salvation, any and all such rewards would only come directly from Overlord’s hands. Utter obedience would be ground into his processor as the only way to get that reward, and that obedience would be ground _deep_.

As he watched Vortex’s visor listlessly dim toward recharge again, the triple-changer replayed the last session in his head.

The helicopter had been showing signs of successful conduct modifications for more than two weeks now. That was good progress. Better than he had expected, actually. Vortex did have a reputation, after all, and Overlord had expected more of a struggle before the breaking completed. Then again, he did have the upper hand.

He smiled to himself, reaching out to casually clean a speck of dust from the screen. Yes, this was going to be quite the notch on his record. Certain phrases and oblique references in Shockwave’s continued communiqués with him indicated that the Guardian of Cybertron had been subtly spreading the word about his work here. Apparently, the relations between Shockwave and the Combaticon team leader were less than ideal. Shockwave had been letting the rest of the Decepticons know about Vortex’s humbling as a way to humiliate Onslaught, but disguising it under a thin official veneer of informing potential troublemakers that behavioral issues could be dealt with on a much more terrible scale than mere physical brutality.

Overlord had know of the rivalry between Megatron’s subcommanders, but he’d never felt a need to vie for the Supreme Commander’s attention. When he made his move, it would be enough to garner Megatron’s full interest. In the meantime, he merely curled his lip at Shockwave’s hint of a threat if he didn’t succeed in crushing Vortex. The Guardian had committed too much for this to be an unsuccessful project, but he hardly needed to worry. It would be successful indeed. Overlord was enjoying himself far too much not to follow through to complete victory.

It was such a gratifying spectacle to watch a mind rearranging its own priorities, slowly but surely, under the weight of its own base-code.

When he’d originally scanned the personal file of the mecha blearily struggling to stay awake on the screen in front of him, the information about the Detention Centre had stood out. He had been mildly interested on the practical applications of the data about spark extraction and psychological aftereffects of the detention spark boxes, but -- Primus! He’d thought it would require a bit more effort for successful emulation than a few hundred meters of plastic and a month of isolation, but he’d been wrong. That had been a pleasant discovery. It seemed that tinkering with the Combaticon’s stasis preparation protocols had created the right mental weakness. Isolation, immobilization, and dropping toward statis had prepared Vortex wonderfully. The involuntary memory recalls had been almost visible.

The results? Priceless. Even with a clear notion of what was being done to him, the illusion was still strong enough to trigger the rotary mecha. Which was, in a very pointed way, exactly what this was about. There was a part of every Cybertronian that could overwhelm conscious thought if manipulated correctly, and Overlord was a master manipulator.

He chuckled with satisfaction. A week more, just to be on the safe side, and then he’d test the Combaticon. He wasn’t broken to heel yet, however promising the training progress had been so far. Overlord expected at least one or two more incidents as stubborn defiance took a last stand. He was looking forward to that. The enjoyment he’d feel while snapping the last of the little scrapheap’s will…or rather, the enjoyment he’d take in watching Vortex snap it himself for his viewing pleasure.

On the screen, Vortex had lost the fight against his own body and fallen into recharge. Overlord smiled again and shut off the screen .  
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	10. Chapter 10

**0 0 Part Ten 0 0**

 

Vortex’s systems were active. Frag, they were working at a frenzied rate. The statis protocols were edging down toward the bottom of the queue, almost to the point where they would go dormant, and he was far more excited about that bit of normalcy than he had any right to be. This was fantastic. He had made an honest attempt at controlling his reactions, trying to keep a semblance of dignity and detachment over what was happening, but it had proved impossible.

Did he have any dignity left? Doubtful. The Combaticon gave up the attempt and let his EM field bleed ecstatic happiness. His body was still locked down, but hibernating systems were coming online. That was ecstasy, pure pleasure after so long offline. He could feel his _hands_ and his _knees_ and -- and --

\-- and the room was full of _noise._ His audios were greedily straining to catch every sound wave created as the rustling sound of the wretched plastic finally -- _finally!_ \-- was unwrapped. Trapped shut inside the cocoon, his vents seized in excitement with muted _flop-flop-flop_ s. He barely managed to keep his vocalizer from clicking incoherently in relief as his visor fought to focus. Everything kept blurring around him as his gestalt-bond gloried in input. So much input! After the timeless stretch of input-starvation, this was a glut of new data sending his systems racing.

He reset his visor again and again, watching the plastic bubble-sheet being removed, and tried to take it all in. His head ached faintly, processors generating heat they hadn’t emitted for far too long as they dealt with the influx, and it was a wonderful thing. Pain was wonderful. It was actual, physical ache. He hoped it worsened.

The Combaticon eagerly followed the hulking shape of the triple-changer (Overlord _sir_ ) as he walked around the bound mecha. The big hands didn’t touch him, still. They wound the plastic material into a roll before it fluttered to the floor. Why was Vortex being freed? Was the waiting game over? He hoped Overlord was going to start the next phase with a beating. Oh, please, let there be a beating. That would boost his systems entirely out of the danger zone, and mere physical pain was something the interrogator excelled in warping to his advantage.

His mounting anticipation died a quick death when the larger Decepticon stepped back, smoothing the end of the plastic sheet onto the roll and placing it off to one side. Apparently he wasn’t going to be completely unwrapped; Overlord had only peeled off the layers that covered his head, shoulders and upper chest. That left the top of his rotor hub exposed, but it just whirred sadly when he tried to flex his rotor blades. 

This would be a major disappointment as soon as his sensor network came down from the high it was tripping through. Overlord hadn’t even touched him, but the bare auditory input of it had been enough to send him reeling. His processors were sorting through a backlog of data input, and he was overriding every attempt by his CPU to quick-sort the influx in order to dump repetitive sounds as inconsequential. None of the sounds were inconsequential. They were all extremely important, and he was going to treasure _every single one_. If the waiting game wasn’t truly over, this might be the only input he received for the next month. That didn’t seem likely, but at this point?

He really wasn’t going to put limits on Overlord at this point.

Still, being able to move his helm and roll his shoulders was amazing. The helicopter twisted and turned as much as he could, shaking off kinks he had been developing for weeks. Cables flexed, creaking, and tubes shifted. He shrugged his shoulders up and down and rolled them as far as he could against the tight wrappings still holding his arms to his sides. Crackling sounds came from his shoulders and the back of his neck, where his back struts and joints had gone dry without proper lubrication.

It felt so good. There were sharp pangs from cables stretching, and the sharper pains where the kinks had to pull apart. Deliciously free movement spliced the pain into the pleasure, and yes. Yes. He’d never imagined tipping his helm forward and backward could feel so good. It was like waking up on that island after being in detention for millions of years. He’d _felt_ the sand and wind, _listened_ to that Seeker’s screechy voice like it was the Voice of Primus, and it’d been breathtaking. The Combaticons had all known that the input was mundane and normal, but despite knowing, they’d been too deprived not to momentarily adore Earth and Starscream for merely existing. 

His systems finally roused enough to start his engine. Cool as his body was, it sputtered and coughed before actually starting a rough purr.

Then Overlord spoke. “Vortex.”

The hum of pleasure in the smaller Decepticon’s systems shriveled and died. Every cable in his frame tightened to near-snapping pressure as his body stiffened in preparation for...something. He didn’t know what, and that was the scary part. His name hadn’t been a question, nor an order or a statement of any kind he could understand. Overlord had said nothing but his name, and that in itself was marvelous in its novelty, but it also meant there was no guidance. He had no safe direction in which to go. Deviating from the routine meant he was once again treading on fragile ground, that thin line between what he knew to be approved behavior and the vast unknown. Any and all unapproved actions might invoke Overlord’s displeasure and more of that terrible solitude.

So Vortex waited, impatient but silent. As much as it irked him, he relied on the training to try and avoid disappointing the officer. It was written in fire across his processor that silence was what was expected of him, and therefore silent he would be. If the fragging glitchhead (Overlord _sir_ , he who touched, he who made the blessed/cursed _sound_ ) was in the room, then Vortex was going to follow his every cue like a good subordinate.

Because the only other option was one he really, really didn’t want to think about.

After a minute or two of gluing his gaze to those lips, waiting for his next hint or order, he saw them curl upwards. The smug little smile revolted him, because the machine beast inside him immediately perked up. That particular smile meant that he’d been pleasing. Pleasing Overlord was good. Pleasing him meant that Vortex had earned a reward, and _that_ thought had even the Combaticon’s conscious mind straining toward his captor as far as possible.

“Good. We **are** making progress,” those infuriating lips said, and the fury mixed with joy in Vortex’s spark when Overlord carelessly reached out. The rotary mecha’s gaze snapped to the extended finger.

By now, the little pause was expected. It was even a mild comfort amidst today’s many changes to the routine, and Vortex just kept his visor faithfully locked to his promised reward. The wait made the delighted, wordless sound from his vocalizer stronger when the finger caressed his helm at last.

He wasn’t sure if he dreaded or hoped for the ritual question to come, but when it did, the loss of a few layers of plastic didn’t make much of a difference. The fragging triple-changer asked his sweet little question, and Vortex revealed exactly how much control he had over his coding -- which was to say, none. That was the power of this routine, after all. Even with the onslaught of new input prodding the statis protocols down, his deep-code had adjusted to accepting that tiny, stupid noise as a substitute for his missing gestalt.

So yes, he did want it still, Overlord _sir_. He wanted it so much, yes he did, and he’d be such a good ‘copter to get it. The warlord squished the plastic gently, watching him closely, but Vortex had learned. He’d kept his silence until told to speak, and he’d been respectful when he’d spoken.

The huge Decepticon smiled again and made a little bubble burst: **_POP._**

Vortex couldn’t stop himself. He moaned softly and it was a humiliating sound to hear coming from his own mouth. That was the nonphysical pain of this situation. He’d learned Overlord’s lessons well enough to know that fighting them only unseated his conscious mind. He’d stopped fighting, making the decision to obey in order to retain what little control he could, but that left him dealing with what his body felt without his consent. Now it was him, not his primitive machine self, moaning like he’d had the best overload of his life.

Because of a blasted air pocket.

He wanted to curl into himself and hide his shame, but that was never allowed. Lacking the ability to move, he just waited for Overlord to give his irritatingly knowing smile and leave him to steep in helplessness.

Overlord didn’t exit the room after that, however. The tall officer simply stood before him, judging him with that red stare once more. The critical gaze caused Vortex’s tanks to flutter despite how he tried to step on the unease. He didn’t know what was going on in this new stage. Since he couldn’t escape, that meant this fragger was still the center of his universe. All hail the master of the popping bubbles. Please, oh plastic lord, grant him the boon of a hint about what he should do next.

The massive triple-changer began to stroll around him, but when Vortex started to turn his helm to follow -- yes, he could _do_ that now, frag yes! -- the towering mecha paused. The bottom of Vortex’s tanks iced up as Overlord backtracked. The slow steps breathed menace because they were an obvious response to the ‘copter doing something wrong. If he did something wrong, it’d displease his officer, and then he’d be abandoned. He didn’t want to go back to isolation!

Overlord raised a finger directly in front the Combaticon’s visor, making the rotary mecha tremble in reflex, and moved it slowly in the opposite direction of his walking. Vortex instinctively followed the tip of that finger like a mesmerized petrorabbit until he found himself looking ahead again.

“No.” The ‘copter cringed visibly, because he _feared_ this blasted rust-eater’s disapproval so much his spark throbbed with each chastising word. “Don’t move, Vortex.”

Humiliation flamed through his internal systems on the heels of the conditioned fear. Vortex seethed inside his head but didn’t fight his trained, ingrained first instinct to obey. He just did as he was told and kept his visor looking straight ahead. Overlord’s finger lingered momentarily, pointing at him, before the huge Decepticon lowered his hand again and resumed his stroll. This time, Vortex remained facing forward, following the slow circle around him with only his proximity sensors.

Okay, there were new commands for this next stage of imprisonment. Now he was meant to be silent until spoken to, respectful when he spoke, and also stay still unless commanded otherwise. That wasn’t so bad. He could handle that. Of course he could. He had been wrapped in infernal plastic bubble for ages proving he’d learnt the first two lessons to Overlord’s satisfaction. He could fragging well bow to this stupid rule as well if it made the triple-changer happy. It’s not as if it meant anything at this point. In the grand scheme of things, following one more degrading order meant very little compared to being made to beg for a feather light touch to his helm. He wasn’t losing anymore dignity in complying with something as petty as this. Nope. If the triple-changing rust bucket thought he actually cared at this po -- 

Vortex’s train of thought evaporated mid sentence.

He couldn’t see Overlord. The fragger stood directly behind him, doing... something. His proximity sensors told him the officer had stepped in close, inside the diameter of the circle he had been walking around the ‘copter. In fact, the other Decepticon hadn’t just stopped to stand behind Vortex. He was also looming _over_ him. The triple-changer was so tall that if he bent slightly, his head would be above Vortex’s.

Uneasiness crept over the Combaticon. It was that blasted fear of the unknown, again, and he still couldn’t control it. What was happening? Why had Overlord bent over him like that, and why wasn’t he doing anything? Anxiety made his rotor hub itch fiercely, twitching his rotor blades in teensy shifting motions back and forth in their swaddling, and the sense of helplessness only built on the fear that’d already been preying on him. When something subtly caressed the back of his helm, his spark tried to jump out of his chest. _What_ up Primus’ holy aft -- ?!

It hadn’t been a touch, he fragging well could _feel_ those, but it had been warm. It spilled across his helm again, and fury roared through the unease. His visor dimmed to almost shut-down as he realized what it was. It was air. The moronic glitch was _breathing_ on him. What the Pit was that supposed to mean to him? What kind of non-verbal cue was an ex-vent?

Anger roasted his fear to twinges of disgruntlement, and he grumbled internally until he didn’t know what else to rage about. He didn’t dare react to the warm air wafting over him. Vortex’s visor narrowed and glared angrily at the door, but the breathing kept caressing the back of his head. His captor said nothing, did nothing. The breathing was merely there.

In the dead silence of the cell, Overlord’s systems were perfectly audible. The heavy-duty purr of a tank engine was paired with a flier’s engine pitch. A strong fuel pump thudded over the continual small sounds of tiny pieces of internal machinery realigning. To Vortex’s input-starved audios, Overlord was an orchestra of living noise, and they gloried in every smidgen of sound. Immersed in the sea of sounds, he realized it wasn’t that the officer was actually breathing _on_ him, but that Vortex had simply become so high-tuned for any sort of contact that normal ventilation air flow felt like a gust.

Overlord was just standing behind him, but Vortex’s sensors strained to feel everything they could from the larger Decepticon. The triple-changer was soaking him with his presence, and he had no idea why.

It felt disgustingly nice.

He would rather eat his own rotor blades than admit it even to _himself_ , but the proximity felt too close to the brief, training/reward touches not to trigger all sorts of happy warnings in his processor. In fact, there were quite a few of those by now. The Combaticon’s gestalt-bond roused from its post-bubble stupor, and his inner needy beast sat up straight, quivering eagerly as new input was dangled in front of it. Or behind him, as it were. His code pinged him constantly, demanding contact, _all of it. **Now!**_

_…please._

Even his bratty deep-code had learned manners by now, because Vortex was such a well-trained subordinate. He kept totally still even as his deep code screamed for contact. That internal creature he couldn’t control was tense, waiting to swoop in and unseat his higher thought processes if he disobeyed Overlord’s rules, but humiliating or not, Vortex preferred obedience to _that_. He stayed quiet and still while his gestalt-bond’s demands for contact grew louder and louder, because Overlord drew closer and closer. One fraction of an inch at the time, but his maxed-out proximity sensors felt every sliver of that changing distance.

It was like that wonderful, terrible, almost-close-enough, teasing fingertip held out of reach, one burst of pleading away. Only this time it wasn’t the subtle warmth of living metal or the tiny whisper of an electromagnetic field. There was an avalanche of not-quite-touching at his back. It was a tormenting monument to ‘if you just lean a bit.’

And oh, how horribly tempting that was. The purely metallic instinct in him divided between the desperate, trained need to obey and remain still -- because it was safe, it was _sure_ , because Overlord had made it clear that was what he should _do_ \-- and the desire to grab that withheld contact as hard as he could. Not that he could physically reach out and fulfill his visceral need for interaction, but his deep code was very willing to break the ‘no speaking’ rule and beg if it’d get that elusive touch. At the same time, _nothing_ could cow his internal beast into total compliance like the EM field currently washing over him.

In retrospect, he probably should have known the way it would end and thrown his helm back or something. Just to make a statement, inasmuch as that was even possible at this point. His statement was that he was desperate and grabbing after anything he could get. That wasn’t new.

He had been concentrating too much on the infinitesimal distance, in the heat of the ex-venting against the back of his helm, and on the sounds of Overlord’s systems. He didn’t notice one hand slowly rising. He was so distracted he didn’t even notice the movement until a huge palm pressed onto his rotor hub.

Vortex’s helm whipped back so hard something snapped in his neck, sending a fantastic burst of pain down his back struts to burst against the chill horror shooting up them. The combination spurted out his vocalizer in a humiliating blurt of noise, somewhere between a yelp and static.

The looming presence at his back stepped away, the tantalizing almost-touching disappearing like it’d never been, and Vortex’s entire ventilation system froze up. The heavy footsteps resumed circled him until the huge triple-changer faced him again.

And Overlord _looked_ at him. After the long, long period isolated here being trained to bend before this mecha’s every whim, Vortex didn’t need more than that look. He could translate it quite well. Spoke words were unnecessary. He could practically hear how the slight purse of those lips indicated a slight sigh of displeasure, and the half-shuttered optics declared to Vortex, and the universe, that Overlord was disappointed. Not mildly annoyed, no. Overlord was outright disappointed. Vortex had _not obeyed_ , and Overlord didn’t have time to bother with disobedience.

It was a look that asked in big bold letters, ’ **Why am I wasting my time with you?** ’ 

It was a look that proclaimed that Overlord had reached the end of his patience. It said, ‘ _I am going to leave you in this place. Alone. No, I’m not sure if I’ll return._ ’

Despair didn’t even begin to describe what Vortex felt. A thousand scenarios ran through his mind, clawing after a plausible solution and finding nothing at all. His systems switched to high gear in panic, struggling against the statis protocols futilely, and a pitiful whimper left his vocalizer. Anytime, anytime now, Overlord was going to give up on him and leave through that door, because he had _failed_ to follow the newest order. He’d failed to comply, and now the training would start over _if_ he was lucky, _if_ Overlord didn’t decide to abandon him here permanently. Vortex didn’t know which it would be, and he couldn’t risk disobeying further in order to ask. The fragger was going to leave, and he’d be alone here for Primus knew how long, and he wasn’t going to get a bubble-pop --

Wait.

Vortex’s mind was fighting off his core program-code by sheer will already, but now his logic hubs rose from the depth of his processor like a pissed-off shuttle emerging from particularly dense atmosphere. It shouldered aside the mindless metal beast trying to display submission and took over instead. It shot queries to his system logs and long-term memory files, queuing up the weight of evidence to smash his conscience with rational argument.

The panicking internal creature was firmly sat upon while Vortex held a talk with himself. _’Hello, personality component. See this file, here? Remember this? It’s that guy you interrogated a couple hundred vorns ago. Yeah, him. The tough Autobot who’d been convinced he could take anything because his unit was all frontliners and built for combat? That worked out for him, didn’t it? See how he squirmed and begged? Good. Now, may I have your attention for this current system report? This one, too. Okay, see the parallel? Looks familiar, doesn’t it? Good. Now, let’s have a short review of your field experience regarding conditioned behavior. There we go. See what’s going on? See what’s been done to you? Good. Glad we’ve had this talk, self.’_

 _’I know what is happening.’_ Vortex clung to that thought like a lifeline as he turned his attention outward again.

He’d known what Overlord had been doing to him, but he hadn’t stopped to think what it was the officer wanted to accomplish. This wasn’t random torture. This wasn’t incarceration with a bored mecha training him for entertainment’s sake. This was structured, intentional breaking meant to turn him into whatever the scrapheap wanted in the end.

The panic he felt wasn’t real. Well, it was, but not for real panic-worthy reasons. He was being manipulated into changing himself to suit this fat-lipped glitch, but he _knew_ the symptoms of conditioning because he had done this to mecha from the other side of the equation. This? What was being done to him wasn’t punishment. It was discipline. He’d been panicking because the treatment had convinced him he’d been devalued to the point where his only worth was as Overlord’s toy. That wasn’t _true_ , but the best way to reprogram mecha’s core beliefs was destroy their sense of self-worth and destabilize them. Overlord had successfully tricked Vortex through those hoops by isolating him and fiddling with what made a combiner team work, but this was still incarceration. The purpose was to turn out a disciplined soldier, not use him as an amusement.

Megatron wouldn’t mail him to this fragging bubble-blanket psycho just to get him slagged in a creative way! Overlord could isolate him, put him into statis, torture him, or throw all the orders in the galaxy at him if he wanted -- but he couldn’t deactivate him. Statis lock…yes, even under his newfound determination and courage, Vortex wobbled as terror surged at the thought of the Box, but he _would_ be returned to the Combaticons. Overlord would be forced to reactivate him eventually. Dismembering Bruticus was far too stupid even for Megatron to consider.

So pouty-lips could threaten him with whatever he wanted, but that didn’t change matters. If he could reason through the trained fear and keep aloof, he’d outlast whatever outlandishly long length of time Overlord had been granted. The mecha had done everything possible to take away Vortex’s ability to measure time. His gestalt links craved what he’d been manipulated into wanting. He just had to regain control of the triggers. Touch he couldn’t do much about, but that wasn’t special. Mecha coming out of solitary confinement were clingy. He’d probably spend a few weeks pinning Swindle down for cuddles, since the little Jeep was the least likely to be able to throw him off immediately.

The sound was going to be the killer. From Vortex’s revised viewpoint, however, the sound wasn’t important. He had to keep the facts in the forefront of his mind, and the fact was that he didn’t _need_ it. His gestalt links were deprived and newly addicted, but like any addiction, it could be broken with sufficient willpower. It was just an insignificant displacement of air. Frag that! He could make his _own_ noise! A sound was a sound and could be replaced by any sound, for all his twitchy code cared.

He would show this fool just what a smart idea it was to try conditioning a mech to a trigger based on sound. The drone-reject had gone through an enormous amount of effort to isolate and train him to the noise without disabling his recording equipment!

In the midst of the hot mess of _need-want_ compulsion up around his logic hubs, Vortex searched frantically for an audio file. Claws of _need_ tried to tear control from him, and he pulled out a file at last with the feeling of starving mecha finding a hidden emergency ration. 

Trembling, choking down the need to start pleading, he played it for himself.

’Pop.'

The orgasmic tidal wave of reward completely failed to happen. He played it again louder.

_’Pop!’_

Nothing. 

Triumph and relief became lost causes, as if they were sucked down a drain while he tried to catch them with frantic fingers. Desperation constricted his intakes tight. The _ache_! It pressed down on the top of his cortex, throbbed inside his processor, and pulsed under every thought! He couldn’t shake it off, and it was getting _worse_. The burning need raged through him unabated, and the recording had triggered absolutely nothing. It’d fallen flat, just another noise from overused memory files. 

His logic hubs sourly reminded him that it’d always _been_ just a noise. That didn’t make him want it any less at all, but he seized that bit of logic like it’d anchor him in an objective perception of what was happening here.

His vents tried frantically to open and shut, pathetic _flop-flop_ s as his engine revved in core-deep panic, but Vortex dug mental heels in to fight the raving, desperate beast inside him made up of support structure instinct and deprived gestalt links. He could endure. He had to. Okay, rational thought time. All he had to do was stop looking at the fragger. The _need_ washing across the back of his visor was trying to obscure any sensible solution. It felt terrible, but it would eventually have to fade. Addictions were like that. It was going to be a walk through the Pit with busted knee joints giving up his bubble-fix, but it was something he could do. He _could._

He just had to look away from the Decepticon standing in front of him. The Combaticon dropped his chin and glared down at the floor instead. Even if he didn’t fight the craving -- and he wanted _wanted **wanted**_ not to fight so bad, his inner code-creature was _such_ a well-trained beast -- Overlord still wouldn’t be able to frag with his mind if Vortex concentrated on --

He saw the movement. He couldn’t have missed it if he’d had Blitzwing sitting on the back of his head. Overlord’s helm cocked to one side, and the miniscule movement was accompanied by an unreadable smirk. Maddeningly full lips slowly spread into a smile that caused Vortex’s spark to look for a hiding spot. The triple-changer took a step closer.

The helicopter’s systems _howled_. His very circuitry crawled, scrabbling under his armor like an army of Insecticons had infected him, because even his slagging fuel pump knew what a step closer meant. This mecha approaching him had taken him through this dance so many times, Vortex’s body knew the steps by spark. Coming closer had always meant that it was time for him to be an obedient, disciplined, respectful prisoner. If he was good and followed the rules, then that step closer meant that the _need_ would stop.

His resolve crumbled, baked to a burnt crisp that flaked around the edges the longer Vortex failed to concentrate on the floor instead of the Decepticon in front of him.

Then Overlord paused before him, like he had so many times before, and a hand leisurely rose to hover before him, and _yes_. The Combaticon’s logic hubs went a bit melty, reasons becoming mush as the ache surged to a psuedo-pain that had his visor blazing bright red. He panted in lust for the caress of that fingertip. It was so close. It stopped just before grazing his helm, just like every time, suspending him in that agonizing moment right before he’d feel what he was trying _so fragging hard to ignore_.

Overlord leaned a fraction closer, bending slightly, and -- and --

The triple-changer’s right hand swung across Vortex’s stubbornly downward line-of-sight, and Vortex’s visor almost involuntarily followed it as it reached down to one side -- to one side where --

Oh, _Primus_ have mercy, because Overlord certainly wouldn’t. Vortex couldn’t have torn his gaze away with a crowbar. The massive hand plucked the roll of discarded plastic bubbles from the floor, raising it with slow inevitability to be held, tantalizing and sadistic, before his feverish visor.

The howl from Vortex’s systems hiccupped. Part of his processor still strained for that hand held just out of reach, but his visor locked on the bubbles. They glistened in the light from his visor, like shining droplets of crimson liquid.

Overlord turned the roll between his fingers, peeling one layer away from the main roll, and Vortex’s head bobbed to follow the shiny plastic. His mind protested how stupid he must look, but pride had no defense against the piteously needy thing that lived underneath his conscious thoughts. Those tiny air pockets were its world. His optic sensors lit a strained white when two huge fingers singled out a bubble, and it was all Vortex could do not to moan. He knew what was coming, and he wasn’t sure he was strong enough to resist. It felt like logic had dribbled out of his head to puddle, forgotten, at his feet.

He didn’t need it. It was just a noise, just a fragging noise. A noise that didn’t mean anything, really. It was nothing but air and plastic, in the end. Why would a bursting bubble liquefy his back struts? And that fingertip, it -- it -- would just barely brush his helm. It was more a meeting of electromagnetic energy than an actual touch, and he’d had _plenty_ of that today compared to what he was used to! His sensor network had practically gorged itself! The glut totally neutralized any further contact, surely. Anything he got from that fingertip right now would have to be less --

 _Squeak. Squeeeek-nyk._ The fingers caressed the bubble so lightly and impossibly gentle. It made the tiniest noise. A loud vent would drown it out.

It was _just a noise!_ Just a noise, just a _noise_ , justanoise, justanoise-justanoise- _justanoise_ \-- 

Full lips smiled, positioned to be perfectly visible between the officer’s raised hands. It was a trifecta of banal horrors the Combaticon’s whole body lurched to see: the fingertip poised to touch his visor, that sinister smile, and the delicately captured bubble in the other hand. 

The rich voice added a fourth sickening element to the mix. “Vortex,” Overlord said in a terrifyingly neutral tone. “Choose.”

A choice. A choice? No. Oh no.

Vortex wanted to scream until his vocalizer gave out, but he didn’t, because silence was _right_. A good subordinate, a well-trained mecha who knew his place and did as he was told, would be quiet unless giving Overlord the demanded answer. Nothing more, nothing less, and although it was too late, the ‘copter paralyzed inside his plastic bindings still desperately resorted to the relative safety of that training. Just look what happened when silly Decepticons disobeyed, after all. His machine operation code rebelled violently, ripping him into reverse so fast he’d have gotten whiplash if he were actually moving. Even his conscious mind backpedaled furiously all of a sudden, absolutely appalled by the choice he was faced with.

He clicked helplessly instead of speaking, frantic for clarification, though it took him only an astrosecond to understand. Because he was being pulled in two directions by two forces so strong that it felt like they’d tear him apart. They had been the driving forces behind his actions for weeks (months?!) now. And now he had to choose...what? What he wanted? What he had to forsake? Which was the right answer? What did Overlord _want_ him to say?

A subtle huff of annoyance flared the triple-changer’s vents, and the smile fell to something far less amused. “Neither?” he asked, lip curling into a sneer as he straightened and started to pull away. “Very well, as you wish.”

“ **No** , nonono, **wait** , no **please** \--” Vortex’s babbling broke with a burst of static. He thrashed against the restraints, barely twitching inside the plastic, and he keened, a long wail of binary beeps trailing off pathetically.

The Combaticon stared into Overlord’s optics, and whatever defiance he had been attempting amounted to exactly nothing. There was no reasoning away with ‘just-a-noise’ reminders, no pings issued by his logic hub, no rationalization of addiction. There was only desperation and the acid-burn need to obey, to just comply, because _nothing_ meant anything right now but the mecha in front of him. Because what was being taken away were the only things keeping him from losing his mind completely to his own glitched-up gestalt code, and they only came from Overlord’s hands.

He had failed. He’d thought he could withstand it, but he’d been wrong, and now he was _also_ failing to answer a question, and _he_ would take it all away, and -- and Vortex was _so fragging sorry_. The pleading poured from him without thought. “...please, please. Just -- please don’t -- ” he couldn’t stop muttering between little staticky clicks of distress.

Overlord paused, his hands still as pillars. He stood silent for a klik while the trapped, cornered mecha’s vocalizer wavered unsteadily, delivering a stream of debased pleas. After Vortex hit a certain pitch of desperation, that plush mouth curled up at the corners into a deceptively gentle smile. “Do be more polite in the future, Vortex. Speak when you are spoken to, and answer my questions in a timely manner. Understood?”

The pleading dropped into staticky, broken, but frantically hopeful assurance. Hopeful because the triple-changer’s words implied that this pet project was going to continue, and right now, that was the best thing Vortex had ever heard. “Y-yes, Overlord sir, please, please…Overlord sir, I’m sorry, i-it won’t happen again, just please -- please don’t -- I-I’ll do better -- ” 

The words were thick with self-hatred and despair. Overlord drank in Vortex’s revulsion and graciously nodded acknowledgment. “I’m glad we understand one another. Now…which one?”

He opened both hands above the rotary mecha’s head as if he was about to impart a blessing, and Vortex almost sobbed in gratitude. Because, honestly? That was precisely what it felt like. Shivering violently, he turned his helm towards Overlord’s right hand. His vocalizer reset over and over again, trying to get it to spit something other than static. 

“Please, th-that. Overlord sir. Please,” Vortex said, very mindful of his manners now. His voice stayed high-pitched and still more than a little pleading, and it was bitter torture feeling the officer’s left hand fold away. His circuitry strained after the other mecha’s EM field, and he whined thinly because he knew that it would be _incomplete_. He’d had to choose. He’d been a bad subordinate, but Overlord was magnanimous. Overlord was allowing him to keep one. Just...just one. 

One was better than none.

His visor was stuck to the plastic sheet. He couldn’t see anything else; he couldn’t _think_ of anything else. His audios were dialed up so high in anticipation that his own fuel pump sounded like a rhythmic thundering.

“Do you want it?” Overlord asked, holding the bubble he had singled right before Vortex’s visor. The shining plastic bulging around his fingers was so close it nearly filled the Combaticon’s field of view.

The familiar phrasing made him fall all over himself with eagerness. “Yes, **yes**! Please, Overlord **sir** , yes! Yes, I want it, please -- ”

“And why should you get it, Vortex?” The words were punctuated by minute press-and-release movements of the fingertips compressing that tiny air chamber. Each teensy motion had the helicopter’s undivided attention, and Overlord stopped talking to squish the bubble until Vortex’s overridden ventilation system auto-activated, going back to cycling with a body-shaking shudder as it forced the Combaticon to start breathing again. 

Overlord shook his head, chuckling for a second in amusement before continuing. “ I told you not to move, and you **disobeyed** my order. Why should I give this to you?”

Vortex’s vents almost indented as they all tried to clamp closed past where their specs allowed. The action was the only defensive one possible for him, being wrapped as he was, and it was an involuntary fear-reaction he didn’t even notice.

“I-I -- I -- ” Every cable in his frame trembled, tensed taut. There wasn’t an answer in all the galaxy for that question. He couldn’t think of anything to say that would be good enough, but he’d been _asked a question_. Overlord expected to be answered, and Primus help him if he failed that expectation again. “I, sir, I...I...” The words tumbled out even as he wracked his mind for something to say. “I need it, I -- ”

That was clearly not the right answer, as Overlord’s optics dulled in annoyance. Why would the Combaticon’s needs matter to him? Vortex was a pet project, a mere work-in-progress, and he’d take what Overlord decided to give him. Needs and wants were privileges of the free. Prisoners and bad subordinates took what they were given and were grateful they got that much, if they were halfway intelligent. Dictating his needs to Overlord was presumptuous and rude, and disapproval wrote in large font across the officer’s face in response.

Vortex felt the ground beneath his plastic-wrapped feet disappear, and his tanks dropped into the bottomless Pit left beneath him. “No, no wait, please, I’m sorry! **I’m _sorry!_** ”

This time it _was_ a scream. Vortex heard himself say it, _scream_ it without a shred of pride, and he all but suffocated in humiliation. And the garrot twisted around his feebly struggling mind was the knowledge that it was true. Under the blubbering of his deep-code, Vortex’s conscious mind bowed and bent and finally surrendered. He _was_ sorry.

He had tortured and interrogated professionally for more vorns than not. He had murdered for the fun of it and flirted with his frame still splattered with other mecha’s energon. He had never felt sorry for any of it. Ever. Regrets were for other mecha, he’d always thought.

So he’d thought, but he’d thought wrong. He was extremely sorry.

The problem with regrets was that they appeared after the fact. Vortex was sorry, so very sorry, but he knew how the short training ritual went. The rules were there for a reason. He wasn’t to speak until spoken to, but he was to quickly answer any question asked him. He was to be respectful, and he was to stay still until ordered to move. He either obeyed every rule to the letter and got his reward, or he disobeyed and no amount of apologizing would redeem him.

Except for those rare instances of leniency when he’d apparently convinced Overlord of _how much_ he regretted his poor behavior. He recognized those slivers of hope for the elegantly crafted tools of torture they were, because even knowing that begging forgiveness likely wouldn’t help, he was still going to try. He was going to grovel, and he couldn’t even summon more than a sludgy smear of self-loathing for how low he’d fallen.

Vortex was a very sorry mecha right now.

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	11. Chapter 11

**0 0 Part Eleven 0 0**

 

It was charming, Overlord thought. The results of every project had their own appeal, but this particular labor was bearing plentiful fruit. He watched the little rotary cheeping like a wounded technimal, and he stood back to enjoy the meek chirps of a broken spirit. Nothing was quite as intoxicating as that moment when a spark marched to the tune of his whims, and this one was just beginning to do so, one choked supplication at a time. A heady rush of power filled him at how readily they were coming, too.

Overlord was indeed the best at what he did.

“Sorry? You are **sorry** , Vortex?” Oh, did he relish when his victims brightened at the thought that they might have said the right thing. Said the magic words that would _please_ him, because it ground in just that much deeper that they were aware it was now their highest goal in life.

It was even more entertaining to listen to the copter grovel. Not for the words -- they were just ‘sir’ and ‘please’ strung together in varied combinations -- but to hear that superimposed over the Combaticon’s EM field was like the taste of hundred vorn old high-grade. Every single word was highlighted with dense hatred, every pause backlit by a marvelous flash of humiliation. The longer he made the ‘copter repeat himself, the harder the little flier grit his teeth and the more he lost control of his EM field. 

Because rage and humiliation were not all that there was to that pretty EM field. The longer Overlord drew this out, the more it fought free of Vortex’s battered pride to strain toward him. He felt the rotary’s _need_ winning, pushing aside the hate, and that satisfied him greatly. He had seeded that desperation, patiently fed it and kept it strong. Now it was rooted straight into the ‘copter’s mind, and soon it would grow and bloom into a beautiful, disciplined obedience.

_Perfect_ obedience.

Overlord knew that the Combaticon was still fighting the conditioning. Even though the mecha already responded well to direct _and_ implied orders, there was only a hint of surrender in that EM field. Resignation lay like a corrosive scum over Vortex’s circuitry, but that wasn’t enough. Given his position in the Decepticon ranks, the interrogator had more tools than most available to fight or bend around Overlord’s work. The triple-changer assumed that Vortex would use them all. He _hoped_ the rotary would. Understanding what was being done to him spiced the Combaticon’s whole experience with humiliation, rather than the usual numb confusion Overlord’s other subjects tasted.

However, obedience grudgingly given was as easy to lose as it was to obtain. Any Decepticon officer with a big gun could make their underlings follow orders, but unless they put more into it than just barking loud enough, most of those officers would have a bleeding hole in their backs as soon as they turned around. Decent officers made sure that their units had reason not to scrap them at the first opportunity. Troops who wanted their superior alive and in charge tended to make sure that state of affairs remained in place. That usually happened either because of the perks resulting from working under such an officer, or because of the repercussions from the hole in said officer’s back being not quite deep enough to create a job opening.

Perfect obedience came about through exploring those repercussions until mecha knew to the exact, sickening, frightening, and excruciating detail what would happen if they disobeyed. Even if the officer was disarmed, unconscious, and helpless, perfect obedience ensured that his grunts would drag his statis-locked body off to a medic. That was the power of conditioning.

There was also loyalty, but that was something no sane Decepticon in any kind of rank relied on. Assuming a unit was loyal only meant the troops were good actors. An officer who trusted loyalty above intensive training didn’t stay an officer for long.

The towering triple-changer rubbed the bubble he was holding a tad bit harder, making it squeak almost inaudibly. He pursed his lips thoughtfully as Vortex’s engines hitched. The rotary mecha’s pleas came in a steady murmur now, and he was totally enthralled by the tiny plastic air pocket in Overlord’s fingers. From time to time, the optic sensors behind that visor of red glass flickered as Vortex stole glances at the officer’s face.

Overlord savored the starved longing in the electromagnetic field trying to clamp itself around its owner and failing miserably. Vortex’s coding would drive him to cling to Overlord no matter what he himself wanted, and the triple-changer’s power plant thrummed gloating pleasure for the pathetically needy EM field reaching toward him.

Perfect obedience didn’t require loyalty. It didn’t require a concrete incentive or a corporal punishment of any kind. If Overlord had to raise a hand to coerce the ‘copter physically, then it wasn’t perfect obedience. No, what Overlord was training into this cheeping, clicking Combaticon was the core-deep conditioning for action/reaction, cause and response. 

The end result would be that disobedience would become the scariest thing in the universe; the repercussions would inescapable because Vortex himself would mete out the punishment. By the time Overlord finished with him, the ‘copter would fall apart at the mere idea of not doing what he was told. Even surrounded by his gestalt, Vortex would be unable to stop how his support structure code turned on him, lashing his mind like whips of self-flagellation. Absolute compliance would be ingrained into him as a self-sufficient reason. Obedience would be the only safe refuge for his conditioned mind, which would need no actual reward but a comparatively blissful state of complete certainty. Orders would be obeyed because they simply had to be done. 

No questions, doubts, or personal motives would be attached to that obedience. _Perfect_ obedience.

A smile graced Overlord’s lips, and the Combaticon snapped so rigid he started vibrating inside his plastic bindings with the tension. The larger Decepticon gave an almost imperceptible nod, and Vortex’s engine _keened_. The pleading rose in pitch and turned revoltingly grateful. Self-hatred rolled under the words like waves along an ocean of submission.

Overlord contemplated the quivering mecha for a moment, anticipation making his optics flare briefly brighter. Vortex blinked up at him, trying to interpret that flare as good or bad, trying to guess what would happen next, and the triple-changer almost laughed. Just thinking about the screaming to come made his engines turn over with pleasure, and his project startled at the sound. Nerves had the little ‘copter twitching.

That only increased Overlord’s enjoyment of the whole situation, and his smile stretched wide. He raised his other hand and gently smoothed the plastic sheet he was holding back onto the roll. 

“Today,” Overlord said, and Vortex froze, so rigid he didn’t even vibrate. Even his engine stuttered to a halt. Overlord stared down into the Combaticon’s visor, now so bright it burned white around the edges. He wondered, amused, if the helicopter’s fuel pump might have stopped as well. “This,” he continued, grazing the edge of the plastic bubble-blanket with a single finger, “is enough for you.” The wrapping now only reached up to the the smaller mecha’s chest, but that was enough to keep him still.

Not even a shudder ran through the paralyzed frame this time as Overlord turned and strode toward the door, stopping only to lean the roll of plastic against the wall. Then he left the room with the perpetually unlocked door without a look back.

A soft sound of disbelief followed him out. It morphed quickly into panicked words trying to call him back. That became a prolonged shriek as it hit Vortex that he _wasn’t_ coming back. That Vortex was being left to face the consequences of disobedience, something that had become the Combaticon’s private nightmare.

Yes, there was still a long way to go before this pet project was done with. But once it was, submission would be so hard-coded into Vortex’s processor that the Combaticon wouldn’t be able to tell the moment he stopped obeying for the sake of a plastic reward. The bubblewrap was a cute method of transference, but soon Vortex would bend to Overlord’s whims sheerly for obedience sake. Disobedience...well, disobedience soon wouldn’t be an option, in Vortex’s mind.

The officer paused when he heard the retching sound of a tank being purged amidst the wailing. The helicopter’s body had already reached that point, it seemed, and was punishing the mecha. The mind would soon follow.

Not yet, but soon.

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	12. Chapter 12

**0 0 Part Twelve 0 0**

 

Vortex looked up. He looked down, then to the left. He bowed his head and remained like that. He’d keep his helm down until told otherwise.

“Left,” Overlord ordered lazily. The officer spoke while stand right outside Vortex’s field of view. He couldn’t see the triple-changer’s face, but there was a faint air of amusement in his voice. It made Vortex’s coolant boil as he turned left, once more. He’d been reduced to an object of entertainment. “Up.”

He did as he was told, but Vortex’s mind puzzled furiously around his situation in the meantime. The pointless instructions were nothing more than a nuisance, a distraction trying to provoke him into violating the more important, unspoken instruction: stillness. Stillness at any cost, unless or until he was verbally instructed to move.

Shortly after Overlord unwrapped him partway, a pattern emerged to the surface. Or rather, Vortex noticed a structure the sadistic slagger used. The hulking officer left him with implicit standing orders, then verbally demanded he break them -- but only on Overlord’s terms. Vortex was to remain silent until he was prompted to plead for the noise. He was to stay still until he was told to move. Any violation of the rules _without_ Overlord’s approval earned the ‘copter more of that dreaded solitude, apparently that he might think about his crimes.

It’d only taken him one hesitation when the orders began to decide that being an entertainment was better than being ignored. Obedience was the better option.

Overlord spoke again, and Vortex grudgingly moved. Right, left, up. Left, down, ahead. Up, and pause for the triple-changer to walk a slow circuit around him as if on inspection. Vortex tensed and kept his visor fixed on the ceiling obediently, resisting the immediate urge to look at the moving object in his peripheral vision. That would be a violation of the last order given him -- look up -- and therefore he wouldn’t do it. When Overlord finished two whole circles around him, there was a soft grunt that almost sounded like approval, and Vortex hated how his fuel pump skipped to hear it. He’d passed the test!

Fraggit.

The orders started again, and the ‘copter followed each one. The amused edge in that rich voice thickened. _’Who’s a good cyberpup, Vortex? You are, yes, you are.’_

It might as well have been said aloud, except he doubted Overlord would give him even that much praise...or credit for that matter. The short test had been a statement, much like everything had been since his arrival to this personalized Pit. Overlord might as well have been holding a neon sign that read, _‘My wish is your command.’_ Actually, Vortex felt it was more like the words were being carved into his plating with very blunt instruments. Upside down, so he could read them easily. They saturated every single word the officer said, and the Combaticon was getting the message loud and clear.

It was worrying. This wasn’t how conditioning was imparted.

Overlord paced around him once more, and Vortex tensed again. It had been more than seven breems since the session had started, and a needy hope was starting to coil inside him. Because, of course, he’d been an obedient subordinate, and his core code knew that obedient subordinates earned favor from their officer. This officer. Whom Vortex’s internal metal creature wanted so very badly to please, yes it did.

He seethed at his by-now familiar reaction, but he didn’t hate it half as much as he hated the other mecha in the room. The ‘copter desperately turned inward to his own thoughts again. He knew what was going to happen, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t try to block it out or at least distract himself from the inevitable.

And that was the worrying part. He recognized what was going on as instrumental conditioning. One of its characteristics was that sentient beings didn’t like it. Cybertronians, like any other intelligent species, didn’t like to know they were being changed. So they fought the changes. He _knew_ that, because he was a professional mindfragger. One fact he’d been taught early in his career was that hard-coded respondent conditioning only integrated correctly into base code if the subject wasn’t completely aware of it. It had to be slipped past the conscious mind disguised by what mecha _thought_ was going on.

The most common response from a correctly conditioned mecha was confusion, because what the subject thought was going on had nothing to do with what was really happening. The behavior modifications or changes to a mecha’s mind settled into program support code while the subject’s thoughts were busy with things like pain, pleasure, or trying to resist the overt attempts that’d covered the real efforts. By the time mecha realized something else had happened, the conditioning had already fooled his original code into accepting the foreign modifications that had been disguised as data produced by the local logic hub. Such changes had to be slipped in, otherwise purging software kept trying to erase it --

Vortex’s train of thought interrupted itself abruptly when one of Overlord’s strides closed the circuit slightly. The triple-changer’s pace didn’t change, but he was now close enough that Vortex could almost _feel_ the smug pleasure radiating from the fragger. The slow circle surrounded him in it.

The irritating commands were steadily more spaced, just daring him to move before the next one was given.

Up.

Down.

Ahead.

Frag Overlord’s rusted officer aft and frag his waste-scrap orders.

The ache burnt hot in his sensor network. His internal beast -- frag, his internal _parts_ \-- strained toward that tantalizingly near electromagnetic field, hungry for more, but he told himself it wasn’t time. There were still more orders left to be drawn out, more pacing to try tricking him into disobedience, more condescending head tilts and gloating optics watching him from the corner of his visor. Those facts didn’t make his spark seize any less.

It was the hope. Hope was a horrible thing.

But it wasn’t time yet. The hope was building, yes, because Vortex was being such a good little Decepticon, but it wasn’t time yet.

He dragged his reluctant thoughts back to sentience and -- conditioning. How Overlord was doing it wrong, letting him see every step he was being put through, like a cyberhound going through the paces in front of a trainer. It didn’t make any sense, however. A cyberhound couldn’t comprehend what the training was doing to its mind; Vortex could. Vortex could tell the slagger knew what he was doing. He hated to admit it, but the Combaticon could recognize a superior in his field. He also could recognize aimless mindfragging, and this was not it. So what was the purpose of a skilled mecha like this sabotaging his own work this way?

Then Overlord stopped in front of him, and all thought went crashing down to the floor. Vortex almost panted with anticipation.

Because there was this on top of everything. This was the other part he couldn’t understand. Well, he could in a way; _this_ was clearly mindfragging. Overlord turned to leisurely stroll toward the door, and Vortex’s vents _flop-flop_ ped against his bindings as the precious roll of bubble-blanket was retrieved from the wall beside the door. It didn’t make sense, however, because -- because _smelt him_ , this was _not_ how conditioning worked!

Overlord returned with the plastic in-hand, and Vortex’s world abruptly narrowed to the large hand holding that roll of bubblewrap. His frame stilled completely, and his EM field _surged_ as if to meet a lover. He wanted to plead with Overlord. Not his corrupted deep-code: he, himself, Vortex. _He_ did. He wanted to plead so much, so terribly much. He knew he did, he loathed himself for it, but the only reason he didn’t go ahead and beg anyway was because he knew that would only tip the scales. Right now, he’d been an obedient subordinate who’d passed the latest round of training, and therefore he had grounds to hope.

He hoped. Please, please Primus let that hand keep holding onto that wondrously horrid plastic wrap! All his need and almost-but-not-quite aching pain focused on the hope that maybe this time, Overlord would --

The officer swept him with a critical look and turned right back around to walk toward the door again. A stifled sound of agony came from the immobilized ‘copter as Vortex watched him bend to prop the roll of bubblewrap against the doorframe. Not again. It wouldn’t happen again, and Vortex grieved with a disappointment so fierce it twisted painfully inside his tanks. Overlord placed the bubbles just a bit further away this time, and that made it somehow worse.

Whether or not he was worthy of a reward was not for him to decide, in the end. The Combaticon could only obey every order given him out of hope that he’d be judged good enough for the teensy, stupid, beloved pop of a bubble -- and he’d fallen short somehow this session.

He swallowed down the purge-bitter words that wanted to escape, to humbly ask his officer, trainer, and tormentor what he’d done wrong. Had he been slow? Had he not turned his head far enough, or tipped his chin up too far? He’d improve next time, he truly would, if Overlord would just deign to tell him how he’d failed!

But, no. No, it was up to Vortex to figure out what he’d done that hadn’t been perfectly obedient to orders.

It gave him something to obsess about between sessions, at least. It wasn’t pleasant, but it wasn’t boredom. He knew he’d dissect every moment of this session until he understood his shortcoming. And then he’d carve it out of his abused spark and mind one degrading, forced submission at a time, because the alternative was Overlord denying him the bubble-burst, and he’d do anything to get his addiction-fix.

The massive triple-changer walked back toward him sedately, every movement deliberately slow as if he was just waiting for Vortex to snap and start talking. The ‘copter locked down his vocalizer and endured another torturously slow circuit around him until the officer stood in front of him again. The hand that should have given him that popping noise instead reached out to him. It slid over the top of his helm until the palm covered half his head.

The stroke should have felt wonderful. It once had. Technically, it still did. It still made his plating tingle and his circuitry dance with electromagnetic energy that wiggled his energy field like a cyberpup, because it was interaction, glorious interaction. His sensors gorged on every iota of pressure, every foreign touch of energy, and tamped his statis protocols safely to the bottom of his priority queue -- but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t what he _needed_.

The stroke over his helm was just what Overlord felt like giving him today. That all-pervasive statement? It was still right there. Everything in these little sessions of control and power told Vortex, _’My wish is your command. I will give you what I feel like giving you, when I feel like doing so. If I do at all.’_

It mocked his artificially-created desires. Overlord had crafted the circumstances to culture Vortex’s crazed _need_ , and now he was toying with the Combaticon’s false cravings. Two weeks ago (days, months, years?), a couple seconds of contact had been enough to command instant obedience and make him reel in its wake. Vortex had debased himself pleading for the touch to be just a fraction longer. Now the slagger patted and stroked him everywhere, caressing every uncovered speck of his plating until he decided the ‘copter had been given enough of a reward, and Vortex tolerated it because it was the only scrap his writhing subconscious needy beast was being tossed.

Overlord fragging well _knew_ the touching no longer fulfilled Vortex’s painstakingly warped needs. It didn’t matter how much the hands touched him, it didn’t _work_ anymore. Without the bubble-noise, it was incomplete. Overlord wasn’t rewarding him by touching him anymore; he was claiming the Combaticon. The thorough petting was a statement of ownership.

The officer controlled him on every level. Vortex had thought he’d been brought slavishly low by obeying the rules in order to get his touch and tiny sound, but that had been positively free compared to how he obeyed Overlord’s every whim just for the _hope_ of a reward.

The microscopic part of Vortex that hadn’t shriveled to a twitchy mass of frustration banged its metaphorical head against the inside of his helm. _This!_ This was another action that made no sense! Why would Overlord undercut the conditioning like this?! Why give him mixed signals? It confused a clear-cut order/response/reward reaction chain. Vortex _knew_ he was answering like he should. The lack of anticipated reward only threw the conditioned response into doubt, making him wonder if he was doing what he was supposed to do. Primus! It was a simple enough equation: stimulus + response = reward. The reward reinforced the correct behavior, making the choice of obedience more obvious and desirable the next time the stimulus occurred. Take away one half of that equation, however, and the whole process went to the Pit!

This...didn’t make sense at all. He should have gotten the bubble. He _should_ have. Regardless of whatever random criteria he’d failed to fulfill this session, he had not disobeyed. Disobedience meant isolation and deprivation. Obedience meant he should get rewarded. It was a black and white equation, and this muddled grey area where he was denied a reward weakened the whole conditioning attempt.

Large fingers scratched gently on the uncovered top half of his rotor hub, and he shivered slightly. Pleasure mixed with swelling frustration as his mind kicked at that thought.

Whatever game Overlord was playing, it was flawed. Not invalidated, not so long as the reward made an erratic appearance to reinforce the faulty equation, but seriously flawed. Vortex’s visor widened, brightening to a fiery red. It _was_ a _flaw_. Overlord was making a mistake, and mistakes could be exploited. _Every_ mistake was exploitable. Every. Single. One. 

He tried to keep the excitement from taking over his EM field -- not that hard given that the stroking just kept on and it wasn’t like his frustration with that had gone down _at all_ \-- and started turning the data around in his mind. There had to be a way to take advantage of the flaw. The equation was incomplete. Overlord’s mistake had put wiggle-room into what should have been a set-in-titanium behavioral guideline. True conditioning left the subject no other choice but compliance, but this particular equation left Vortex an _option._

Kliks passed until slowly, just as deliberately as Overlord had left the roll of bubblewrap by the door, Vortex turned his helm. He turned it to glare at Overlord out of the corner of his visor.

The hands fondling his frame instantly stopped. “Vortex,” Overlord chided, circling around behind the rotary mecha to confront him directly. That made Vortex turn his helm the opposite direction, reaffirming that this was defiance, not desperation. Vortex was through losing control and groveling for what Overlord should have known to give him. Well, now it was time for the Combaticon to exploit the opening Overlord had been foolish enough to leave.

The triple-changer folded his arms and shook his head as he spoke, voice sorrowful. “I thought we had gone over this already.” He made a _’tsk-tsk’_ noise: oh, so sad that his pet project hadn’t learned.

The slagged pile of rust was _tsk_ ing at him. _He would fragging kill the glitchhead one day!_

Instead of roaring his anger, Vortex simply glared at him before pointedly looking to the roll leaning against the doorframe. “I had,” and he paused for what he hoped sounded like effect and in truth was his vocalizer fighting like a cornered retrorat against his own panicking code-beast, “chosen that.” His support structure was shrieking in fear, clawing at his programs, and the Combaticon’s visor flickered as he fought it off. “Sir,” he added after a long moment, because there was only so much ground he could win against himself.

“And you will receive exactly what I decide you are worthy to receive.”

There was annoyance in the taller mech’s tone and -- oh, Primus spare him -- disapproval, too. He was disappointing Overlord. He was a bad subordinate Decepticon who’d disappointed his officer. Vortex’s spark tried its level best to escape from its casing, mainly to go grovel at the triple-changer’s feet. 

And now Overlord turned to retrieve the roll of bubblewrap from the door, and he was unrolling it, unwinding a long strip, and oh _frag._ Fragfragfragfrag. _What had he been thinking ohfrag_ \-- no, wait! Wait, wait, wait, _no._ His gestalt links were pulsing searing waves of ache through him, but that’s what Overlord wanted! He needed to keep focused. The equation was unbalanced, promising nothing to _stop_ the ache if he obeyed. There was nothing motivating him to obey if the punishing not-pain would continue even after obedience, and that flaw was in Vortex’s favor. If he could just use that to break what conditioning had already been ingrained, then maybe, _maybe_..!

Overlord neatly tucked the edge of the plastic into the innermost layer already covering Vortex’s chest. He started wrapping the bubble-blanket upward from there without even looking at him, like the helicopter had fallen from his sight upon disappointing him.

He was being ignored. Rewrapped and ignored. Ohhhh, frag. He’d thought his primitive machine self had been frightened before, but now it was thrashing wildly as it attempted to tear his logic hubs out of the driver’s seat.

He struggled to focus on Overlord’s words, not his actions. “Really?” the ‘copter asked through clenched teeth, clamping EM field so close he felt like he was about to sprain something. The words rasped strangely, but at least they weren’t garbled nonsense. “It sounds to me like you can’t keep your promises, **sir**.”

He wouldn’t have picked the twitch from those sculpted lips if he hadn’t had all his proximity and optical sensors zeroed onto the other Decepticon’s reaction. He didn’t know what the motion meant. It could have been anger, amusement, or anything really, but at this point, Vortex was grasping for whatever he could get. Anything that meant he was doing more than digging his own bubblewrapped grave. He was so desperate for a sign of hope, he hung from the twitch as if Overlord had scowled in defeat.

The triple-changer wound another layer of plastic over his chest and walked around him to stand at his back and truss up the bit of rotor hub that’d been exposed. “Do I? Do tell me, Vortex, how have I not kept my promises?” the grave voice now at his back asked in a neutral tone, and rage scorched Vortex’s processor.

_‘The blasted_ **POP** _, you stupid aft! I deserved it, and you didn’t give it to me because you don’t have a fragging clue how conditioning works!’_ The words nipped at his tongue, but he gritted his teeth shut. Giving away the mistake might mean Overlord would correct it. That couldn’t happen. Overlord’s mistake had exhilarated him at first, but now it filled him with a black murderous anger. He was being played with, and that infuriated him.

It also frightened him for some reason he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Defiance of this magnitude this late in the conditioning process should not have been met by casual dismissal. Overlord should have been worried, but he wasn’t, and that worried Vortex.

Also, the words burned against the inside of his lips trying to get out. Not because he wanted to give away the flaw he was exploiting, but because he had been asked a question. Overlord’s rule about that had been laid down, and the _need_ to answer was eating at him like acid. But he wouldn’t -- he couldn’t! If he gave his warped code a single scrap of -- of -- _surrender_ to leverage against his logic hubs, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop himself from folding like tinfoil.

Unfortunately, his machine code could hold out longer than his exhausted willpower. He slapped together a non-answer, reasoning that it was better to answer on his own terms than blurt out what he didn’t want Overlord to discover. “Funny, I didn’t think I had to explain your errors,” the Combaticon countered, doing his best not to let the melting sense of relief for answering undermine him further.

Vortex felt almost an audible _click_ as two pieces of data finally connected together. Hope trickled down through the screaming _need-ache-want_ chaos to his seething processor. Yes. _Yes!_ That was what he’d been looking for! It’d been so blatantly obvious that he’d overlooked it until now. It was impossibly basic, a lousy vidshow villain’s mistake, and it was the crowbar he could put in the flaw to crack it wide open.

He knew how conditioning reprogramming worked like he knew his own frame specs. The process was based off substitution. Replacement of sensations for concepts, like linking the sensation of pain with the concept of transformation. Thinking of transforming would cause pain if the conditioning was done correctly, because the mecha’s underlying system code itself would believe that the two were linked. Conditioning replaced priorities and imperatives, too. Overlord had been feeding Vortex’s machine-beast the idea that obedience to his rules was an absolute, the number one priority, and heavily linking withdrawal symptoms to that concept. Everything that had been happening up to this moment was simply Overlord tricking his coding into subconsciously rewriting itself to fit that new priority. 

The flaw had been in Overlord failing to solidify the replacement. Vortex’s primitive machine creature doubted whether good behavior was really linked to a reward. The only thing it was certain of was that bad behavior resulted in withdrawal -- but when good behavior sometimes resulted in it as well, the creature couldn’t see a clear behaviorism to follow. The conditioning hadn’t cemented into Vortex’s code like it should have.

And there had been another flaw all along, one so visible that Vortex felt dumb for missing this long. Overlord was a monologue and cackled, overdramatic laughter away from being a vidshow villain. Let a mech know what was being done to him, and _he’d fight back_. Vortex had been resisting all along, pushing back against the mindless obedience being trained into him by desperately working out methods to keep his mind in control. That meant he’d bent before the training, but he hadn’t _broken_. It’d been a sad, crippled effort for the most part, but he shouldn’t have been able to resist at all, if the conditioning had been slipped into him correctly. He was able to analyze everything being done to him, however, because Overlord had made his intentions obvious.

Because he himself still had some control, was able to see the conditioning as the imposed changes they were, he could turn that analysis on his own code. It was normally something only a medic should be allowed to do, but Vortex didn’t happen to have one of those wrapped up in the plastic with him. He was on his own with this, and just desperate enough to risk messing with his own program support cradles. By tracing the alterations caused by the stimulus/reaction training sequence, his logic hubs could pick out where the artificial associations had been created. And, once found and marked as malware, his code could self-repair.

In theory, anyway. So long as Overlord kept contradicting his own training system, letting Vortex’s processor highlight the flawed associations, all he had to do was trace the changes back to the root code. It was going to be difficult rewriting them back to normal by himself, but considering his other options right now? He could slagging afford to be patient and start --

**_[Authorization required. Access denied.]_ **

What the -- ?

Vortex watched the error pop-up on his HUD completely flabbergasted. What? That didn’t even make sense! A program error of some kind, maybe?

He retraced the changes through another set of machine code lines, this time for his sensor network, and grimaced at how deep the conditioning had become rooted. No wonder it felt so awful when he didn’t get that stupid bubble-burst, if his entire sensor network had been turned against him like this. He found the source and went to start editing it --

\-- only to run smack into another **_[Access denied.]_** message. What? Was he being denied access to his own code? Had Overlord somehow prevented him from editing the changes?! That...no, that wasn’t possible. He had checked immediately upon awakening here the first time. **_[Access denied. Access denied. Access denied.]_** He was completely sure the smug rustbucket hadn’t hacked him! His firewall hadn’t been breached, his logs were in order -- how in the Pit had Overlord denied him editing rights?!

**_[Authorization required. Access denied]_ **

Authorization?

Vortex’s visor flared for an instant with recognition as that registered at last. He’d stuck on the denied access, but that was the part that mattered. That was the part that he should have, _should have_ thought about. The part of him that was still trading witty, snarky retorts with Overlord finally caught up with what was going on internally, and he couldn’t stop his vocalizer from making a strangled little sound of utter horror.

Authorization required. Yes. As always.

Megatron’s authorization, because Vortex was a Combaticon.

If Vortex could have edited his own core code before now, he’d have yanked out the loyalty programming so fast it’d have left a sucking void, but that wasn’t possible. Shockwave and Starscream had made certain none of the Combaticons could lift a single finger against Megatron, or even think about overthrowing the Supreme Commander. The key for editing those limitations, also known as having access to their own machine code, had then been ceremoniously handed over to Megatron himself. Only Megatron had the Combaticons’ access keys.

And Overlord had rooted the conditioning _just deep enough_ that trying to edit it was fragging core-code alteration, and therefore Vortex couldn’t _do_ it because _frag Megatron’s rusted ports with a slagging, waste-eating, drone-licking -- **argh**._

The violence-laced, vitriol-filled blast of hate blazed through Vortex’s head, which the loyalty programming picked up on, of course. _’Tut-tut, Combaticon. That is not loyalty to the Decepticon Cause.’_ For his seditious, disloyal thoughts, it punished him with swift process termination.

Ouch. Re-education hurt.

The re-booting took a while.

The loyalty software was designed to block any kind of process that indicated dissidence. It usually sent several ping-warnings to Vortex cautioning him to stop, but…yeah, his thoughts hadn’t been just mildly out of line, this time. Even he could admit he’d stepped full-out into no-go territory. When unacceptable threads of thought filtering through its analysis centers weren’t stopped consciously, the loyalty program simply took the quickest route to end them itself. It reinitialized the whole system by shutting the CPU down. That ended the thought process and every other potentially insubordinate action happening concurrently.

Because shutting down the mind wasn’t enough to be considered discipline, not to Shockwave and Starscream. Forced shutdown was unpleasant, but it also carried the secondary purpose of leaving the frame of the rebelling mecha openly vulnerable. Recovering from a cold shut-off took time, and the Combaticons had returned to Earth to embark on a magical journey of discovery finding out just how bad that time could be made. The Decepticons on Earth had free rein for how they chose to abuse any Combaticon who’d been left defenseless because he hadn’t yet learnt his lessons about loyalty to the Cause. The limit, so far as Megatron’s official orders went, was death. 

Not even Vortex had enjoyed the results of _that_ order. The combiner team had soon been re-educated in how not to think about certain things -- very precise, very faction-leader related things -- on pain of suddenly glitching in front of other Decepticons. It was humiliating enough collapsing on the spot, but to do so among mecha who might find it an excellent opportunity for any number of things, none of them fun for the victim, taught the Combaticons to censor their own thoughts very quickly indeed.

Behind the not-to-be-had thoughts, there was not-to-be-tinkered-with code. The loyalty software itself had a restricted-access protocol attached. It made it impossible to rewrite or _over_ write without the proper passcodes and identifications. It prevented the subject of the program from tampering with the program. That was logical, and unfortunately that logic extended those protocols to the whole set of routines where the software’s area of influence centered. That included most of the personality component’s drivers, the gestalt code, and a big chunk of the core operating software. Translation: a hefty percentage of gestalt-affected hardware as well as most of the underlying software.

The Combaticons had adapted, just like they had adapted to everything else that happened after leaving the spark-boxes. Vortex was fairly sure he could speak for the others in his team when he said death was preferable to returning to the Box, and Megatron had made a point of informing them that they would not be granted the mercy of a shot to the head if they displeased him again. Meaning that it was either adapting to the loyalty program or returning to the Box. It’d been an easy choice to make.

Adapting to the changes meant a myriad of small annoyances in their everyday lives, but it hadn’t been _too_ bad. Even the smallest driver updates had to be performed by the Constructicons if those updates came anywhere close to certain functions, but it was just something they’d learned to live with. The thought censorship was a nuisance, but bearable. 

After the first painful orns of realizing he was now _dependent_ on other mecha on a deep, personal, horribly spark-deep and disgustingly emotional level, Vortex just put it away from his mind. It was either that or glitching with reboots every few kliks like a faulty drone. The access restrictions were a weakness which was so profound and unfixable that he’d eventually resorted to erasing it from the forefront of his mind in order to deal with his life how it was, now.

He should have know better than to think Overlord wouldn’t take advantage of a huge, gaping weakness like that.

All this came rushing back to Vortex’s mind like a Astrotrain crashlanding into his cortex the second his logic hub hardware finished booting their components. Higher thought processes swam back into functioning, and regret floated to the top of his muddled thoughts. He had made an extremely bad call.

Vortex wasn’t a mech prone to much introspection, as his profession normally involved him being able to twist other mecha’s minds and not the other way around. This had led him latch to onto any weakness he thought he saw in the triple-changer, without realizing such mistakes were something Overlord hadn’t overlooked, only ignored as insignificant. Vortex’s reaction to knowing about the conditioning had never been more than a sadistic sideshow for the officer because he had known there was nothing Vortex could do to stop it.

Even through the murky haze of a slow system reset, the trapped Combaticon felt acrid, helpless rage bubbling up his fuel intake. Fear chased after it.

Of course Overlord had all but broadcasted his intentions! The big Decepticon made Vortex look like a cyberkitten in comparison when it came to sadism. Making a game of breaking him fit the mecha’s style, and mindgames were always more entertaining when the game piece knew how he was being played with. Openly conditioning him this way had been just another detail to clue him in on how he was nothing more than Overlord’s toy. Vortex was absolutely at his mercy. It’d all been a set-up, a fragging _‘You are welcome to try!’_ tease because the sadistic slaghead knew stopping the conditioned changes wasn’t even an option.

It didn’t matter if Overlord’s obedience equation was faulty. Vortex couldn’t take advantage of the imbalance. Obedience was still the only option open to him, because he couldn’t uproot the terrifying, internal punishment for disobedience. 

Frag. His. _Life_.

The only good thing so far was that the forced reset had erased his sensor network’s cache. The wipe usually made him apprehensive; he’d come online more than once to a rush of sensation, as Skywarp typically waited until he was back online before dropping him headfirst into the ocean, and there was nothing like having a suddenly empty sensory cache refilled by cold, wet, and increasing pressure that’d crumple his plating if he couldn’t recover bodily control fast enough to stop sinking. The Insecticons had once gnawed his legs down to the bare struts while he’d been offline, which hadn’t been a good shock to fill his an empty cache with in any way, shape, or form. Right now, however, the wipe inspired relief instead of wariness. The empty cache was a blessing because he didn’t feel like he’d go crazy if he didn’t get the inane sound of a plastic bubble-burst soon.

Instead, he felt stupid and vastly humiliated, just like every time his mind regained control after Overlord left the room...only he hadn’t, yet. Vortex’s few uncovered proximity sensors informed him that the tall Decepticon officer was still present. He seemed to be leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. He appeared to be waiting for his pet project’s forced reboot to finish.

Vortex’s visor fritzed online while a few secondary systems finished initializing, but he didn’t need it to see Overlord’s unbearably smug smile. His imagination painted it vividly without actual visual input needed. It was a tangible thing in the triple-changer’s expansive, suffocating electromagnetic field, as if the mecha’s absurdly plush lips had taken on a life of their own and filled the room with their perverse enjoyment of Vortex’s suffering. The swirling energy radiating off of Overlord almost asphyxiated the Combaticon with amusement. It was a smile full of that rich voice _tsk-tsk_ ing, added to a dash of sweetly chiding poison rubbing in how submission was the only option. The smile mocked him even before it registered in his optical sensors. As the pixilated smudge that was Overlord straightened and approached him, Vortex wished he’d been scrapped just to avoid having to see it.

That wish turned out to be unnecessary. The smile wasn’t there. Overlord’s optic ridges were knitted into a slight frown that gave the officer’s hyper-expressive face a kind, worried expression. It made Vortex’s plating try to crawl off his body and disappear into the floor, because glee and malice reached out to tenderly envelope the ‘copter like a rotten blanket.

Overlord stood silently before him for a few kliks, looking at him like a compassionate, even paternalistic officer dealing with a subordinate’s inexplicably poor behavior. The Combaticon’s visor stopped spitting lines of static across his sight and showed the triple-changer in perfect clarity. His spark scrambled frantically at the back of its chamber as if it’d claw through his back to escape what was coming. Whatever was coming. Because something was coming, and it didn’t know what, but like the Pit did it want to be here for it.

Oh, Vortex knew what regret was, now, intimate and unavoidable. He had made a bad, bad call, and he was going to pay for it.

One giant hand lifted to slowly lay on the top of his helm. Since he had been returned to plastic wrapped above the chin, Vortex’s flinch didn’t dislodge the large palm. It caressed his head, soaking him in ill intentions as it handled him with the gentlest of caring touches.

“Finished rebooting, Vortex?” Ugh. Even the fragger’s voice was tuned to that sick, patently false concern.

Overlord expected to be answered in a timely manner. Vortex had been rammed head-first into the fact that disappointing Overlord’s expectations led nowhere good. He dimmed his visor and answered so faintly it wouldn’t have been audible from two steps away, “Yes, Overlord sir.”

The oppressive energy field sipped his despair like high-grade to be savored. Overlord’s voice _oozed_ concern. “Do you suffer this kind of, hmm, **mishap** often?”

The words diffused what little heat the soft, careful stroking brought his input-greedy gestalt code. A cold rope of humiliation uncoiled in his tanks, snaked up his intake, and knotted tightly around his throat. The triple-changer was toying with him, innocently inquiring after his health, and all Vortex could think was how pathetic it looked from an outside perspective. It sounded as if he had a _malfunction_. He would have probably felt anger instead of chagrin if he didn’t know it was close to being exactly that. This was a debilitating, coded override. A drone with this kind of function error would be scrapped for parts, especially if the drone didn’t learn from repeatedly tripping the shutdown parameters.

“No, Overlord sir,” was whispered quiet enough to match his previous answer.

“Hmm. Are you aware of what is triggering these incidents? It is most...disquieting.” The words were accompanied by the tiniest twitch to the mask of sugary concern. Overlord’s energy undulated, washing over Vortex’s in relentless waves of gloating. What was outright freaking the Combaticon out was the sense of purpose the EM field now held. It rippled with cheerfully cruel intentions, and it darkened, goading him to make one more misstep -- or not. It was, after all, too late. Vortex had already screwed up.

Not that he wasn’t going to desperately clutch at anything to lessen the blow when it fell. He coughed the thick sludge of humiliation off his vocalizer and croaked, “Yes, Overlord sir.” Yes, he was aware of what it caused the shutdowns, and Overlord knew as well, frag his rusted CPU.

“You are? Curious. I’d have thought a Decepticon as intelligent as yourself would have avoided known triggers. What caused this particular incident?” The full lips smiled, slow and self-satisfied. “Pray tell.” 

He was going to make him _explain_. The sadistic _fragger_.

Vortex the interrogator could easily idolize this Decepticon. Overlord was brilliant. Some beaten, buried part of Vortex had to admire his technique. The triple-changer hadn’t raised a hand, much less his voice, yet the Combaticon was only a thin veneer of self-control away from screaming in frustration -- and fear. That took skill.

As a professional, Vortex was a fan. As a victim, he was outright praying for Primus to deliver him.

He fought the compulsion to answer this time, he really did. It would expose a wound he had worked very hard to make unnoticeable. As any Decepticon knew, flaws were exploitable, and the Combaticons collectively possessed a gaping weakness anyone could needle if it were exposed. He wasn’t stupid enough to believe Overlord was asking anything he didn’t know already, but he still didn’t want to answer. He didn’t want to say it out loud where Overlord could poke and prod at it like an open, bleeding cut. 

It was terrible enough admitting the truth to himself when he could nurse the vulnerability and try to hide it as best he could. Having his basic code restrained terrified the ‘copter -- or it had once, back when having his code manipulated had been fresh in his mind. It was too much like being taken apart for imprisonment in the Box. Every internal restraint wrapped around him made him that much more nervous because it took away control over his body and mind. He’d tried to forget the loyalty program’s insidious tendrils were threaded through him, because he couldn’t fight it and refused to stay scared forever.

Now he was being ordered to dwell on that sense of helplessness. Vortex shivered and was reminded all over again that Overlord had dug his own code-changes deep enough to twine with what the ‘copter really didn’t want to think about.

As much as he didn’t _want_ to answer, his core-deep cringing beast had already rolled over. His conscious mind’s wants were no longer important. Vortex himself didn’t have a choice anymore. His vocalizer clicked a few times before he gave up trying to fight the compulsion and admitted glumly, “It’s the loyalty programming, Overlord sir.”

“Oh.”

He was screwed. He was so screwed he couldn’t even comprehend how screwed he was. His mind was unable to supply possible outcome scenarios because his alarmed higher processor units were censoring everything on account of possible stasis-inducing panic attacks. _Panic attacks_. Him! _Vortex_ was on the verge of an emotional breakdown due to rampant terror. _That’s_ how screwed he was. This wasn’t waking up in the Autobot brig with his tank on empty and a gun at his helm; this was waking up on Shockwave’s lab table with the extractor delving into his opened chest, prying open his spark chamber!

Vortex felt his processor contract in fear at what that single syllable could imply. Either the point had been made and figurative-Shockwave would pardon him at the last possible second, or things were about to get unimaginably horrible for Vortex. Overlord’s voice didn’t give him the slightest clue about which it was about to be.

Please, Primus. Let this be the end of the conversation. Let the fragger have had enough. _Please_.

“I see,” the triple-changer said in a companionable tone. “I did read about this loyalty programming in your file. I had never seen its effects, though.” The words acquired an overtone of mild fascination, and the triple-changer began walking around him. The sweetest concern shone from the red optics studying him from every angle. “You’ve had this programming since your activation on Earth, have you not?”

Unwanted connections were being made in Vortex’s mind. The urge to answer began to mix with an incipient desire to be asked. The pacing brought in a rush of uncalled-for memories of plastic popping. First came the test, then the reward. Or at least not the punishment? He could hope, anyway. In order to earn his bubble-burst, he had to demonstrate that he could obey his officer’s orders. Only then would Overlord be pleased and bestow that reward. The code-creature inside Vortex wanted, _wanted_ to be asked more questions so he could answer them and show how well-trained he was.

He stomped fiercely on a simpering tone until it came out closer to neutral. “Yessir, Overlord sir.”

The meek metal beast of structure and code broken to Overlord’s heel crouched in the back of the Combaticon’s mind and whimpered. Please let him be a good subordinate. Ask him more questions!

“It’s a most interesting reaction, considering the length of time you’ve had to adjust to the program that causes it. I was under the impression, unless my reference files are mistaken, that it was triggered by defiance to our leader, Lord Megatron.” The circling stopped, leaving Overlord right before the ‘copter once again, and when had Vortex begun trembling like this? He was shaking so hard his vision jittered, making Overlord’s menacing smirk all the more frightening. “Have you been entertaining seditious thoughts, Vortex?” 

Not…that question.

When Vortex saw the triple-changer’s face, numb horror dribbled down his entire body until only the plastic wrapped around him kept him upright. His knees certainly weren’t supporting him any longer. Overlord wasn’t even attempting to hide his amusement anymore. It wasn’t just ill-intentioned; it was a _playful_ smirk, too, and the kind of games mecha like this played were enough to send Vortex’s mind back to cower beside his internal code-creature.

Frag, _frag_! Okay, no, wait. It wasn’t so bad. If the walking slagheap wanted to believe the glitching was because he’d thought about shoving sharp pointy things up bucket-head’s --

_**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]** _

No! No no no, simple question! Simple, direct question! That was simple enough to twist the meaning of to his advantage, really. He just had to think about it from a certain perspective, and no! No, of course he hadn’t been thinking rebellious thoughts about Megatron. He had succumbed momentarily to frothing anger and thought about some hypothetical violence, sure, but that had been because of _Overlord_. To be honest in a round-about way, then, Vortex had been thinking defiantly about _Overlord._

The loyalty program subsided, an itching presence that slowly trickled back out of his databanks. It lurked, ever-watchful. “No, sir,” Vortex said aloud, with a good dose of caution to go with his panic.

“None at all?” What a pleasant surprise! Oh, happy day! Butterflies and glitter day! Overlord was just _delighted_ that his pet project was loyal to Megatron. The Combaticon’s armor plating felt as protective as tissue paper before that overdone joy, especially when doubt entered the triple-changer’s pleased expression. “I am surprised, I admit...I would have thought that there would be some lingering resentment due to your recent relocation. You must agree that Lord Megatron wouldn’t take such measures if they weren’t necessary. You must agree that you deserve to be here with me. Don’t you agree with Lord Megatron’s judgment, Vortex?” 

The voice became a purring whisper as Overlord leaned down to speak directly into the Combaticon’s audio. “Don’t lie to me, Vortex.”

_**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]** _

Vortex desperately called up a slew of random memory files. The ones from before the gestalt formation usually worked better.

He knew what Overlord was doing. It wasn’t as if others hadn’t tried to make him glitch before. The Combaticons had figured out that the software had a margin of tolerance. The loyalty program was meant to re-educate them, after all, not shut them down. The purpose of the buffer warning was for them to reconsider their disloyalty. The theory was that their change in thought patterns would guide them back to the Decepticon Cause and loyalty to Megatron. In practice, the Combaticons used the pop-up as a warning to derail their train of thought. They didn’t have to stop thinking whatever triggered the software; they just had to change their thoughts enough to slide under the threat of shutdown.

The secret was just to alternate innocuous data in intervals long enough to appease the software. Hence, memory files and -- _**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_ \-- and it had been fragging easier on previous occasions when he could just shoot the smart-aft who had tried to glitch him!

Still, it was doable. Just like previous times, he didn’t have to answer the question and concentrate on innocuous thoughts. That would put the watchdog software back down.

Except he did have to answer.

Because it wasn’t some fragging nobody Decepticon bothering him. Overlord had asked. When Overlord asked, Vortex knew he _had_ to answer or -- _**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_ \-- or he’d wish for the pleasure of a dip in a smelting pool. Except he _couldn’t_ answer because that _question_ \-- !

_**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]** _

The ‘copter offlined his visor and tried to focus on staying afloat in the two way riptide that was the fierce, ingrained compulsion to obey Overlord’s timely-answer rule versus the knowledge of what would happen if he even tried. It was a circuit-melting paradox. He lost the fight whichever way it went, but there was no option to give up in despair. He had to choose, and this mockery of having a choice in what was being done to him made his helm throb.

Alright, fine, he wouldn’t think about it! All he had to do was follow the orders he’d been given. Overlord hadn’t said he couldn’t disagree with Megatron; the triple-changer just demanded he answer one way or another. He didn’t even _have_ to lie. He’d just tell Overlord the truth, and the truth was that he totally didn’t agree that being violated in every way by this fragger was necessary -- 

_**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]** _

Argh, no no nononono, nope, he agreed! Vortex was Megatron’s loyal follower! Why on Cybertron would he disagree with anything Megatron decided? Yes, he agreed completely! He was perfectly okay with Megatron’s policy, or management, or whatever the frag had brought him here under Overlord’s thumb, and --

_’Don’t lie to me, Vortex.’_

Overlord’s words dug through his excuses, shredding them before his vocalizer even engaged. Lies? Had he been contemplating telling his officer _lies_? He knew better. Overlord had trained him better than that. Oh, he could all too easily imagine the consequences if he was caught out in a lie. _Days_ alone -- maybe even weeks! There’d be no bubble, no touch, nothing. The stasis protocols would creep back up his priority queue until he was locked down inside his own body, and a spark-box would be totally unnecessary because Overlord could just leave him here to this empty room and an offline body.

Implied disapproval sluiced over him, sending his subconscious mind into pre-emptive cowering. But that meant he _did_ disagree with Megatron, now didn’t it?

The clamor of process termination warnings boiled up from under his databanks, sending angry pop-ups that didn’t stop because he couldn’t stop thinking. _**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_ He couldn’t lie, but he couldn’t disagree, and there was no solution, there was nothing he could do to stop -- _**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_

No, this was a misunderstanding! He could turn this around enough, he could. He had to! See, he wasn’t lying, uh, not really. He was just...having a sudden reassessment of, er, the Decepticon Supreme Commander’s actions based on -- _**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_ \-- on information unavailable at the time of Lord Megatron’s decision. He had changed his mind because of new information! Yes, that was something happened in war! New information came up, and prior decisions had to be reassessed by whatever Decepticon was in possession of this new information, so -- _**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_ \-- no no, wait, he wasn’t disagreeing! Or rather, he was _now_ , but he agreed with what Lord Megatron _had_ decided, it was perfectly fine with him, and --

The loyalty program wasn’t fooled in the least. It bulled through Vortex’s pretzel of logic and slapped him with another pop-up: _**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_

The warnings becoming increasingly more insistent, but he couldn’t make the dissident thoughts stop. Overlord’s question and subsequent order had thrown his mind into a vicious loop where denying the truth that would tip him into the glitch only made him retrace the line of thought back to the order not to lie. Even if the ‘copter managed to eventually scrap up the willpower necessary to lie to his officer’s face, there wasn’t enough time to trick the loyalty program into actually believing what he was saying instead of the truth. The truth, which was --

_**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]** _

A soft sound of distress escaped Vortex’s vocalizer. “Please, sir,” he pleaded hoarsely. Because he hoped, Primus reformat him into a buffing drone, he desperately hoped that this was what Overlord actually wanted to hear. “Please, Overlord sir. I -- I can’t.”

The gentle stroking resumed, petting his helmet, and Vortex keened with the effort of holding his tongue. The truth fought to be said, as it should be said because he had been asked a question and a lie wasn’t acceptable, but he couldn’t, he just _couldn’t_ \--

“ **Can’t?** It’s a simple question. Do you or don’t you agree with Megatron’s orders? I seem to remember telling you that I’m to be answered **swiftly** when I ask a question, Vortex,” Overlord reminded him in a chiding voice, and his code reeled with the need to answer --

_**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_   
_**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_   
_**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_

Frag.

“Nh,” was all he managed to say before he shuddered and went slack in his wrappings. Black narrowed his vision down to a slender strip that blipped to nothing as his entire optical array was taken offline, and Vortex reset. 

It wasn’t painful, at least not in the physical sense, but it was awful. The Combaticons typically did their best not to trip the loyalty program. It wasn’t just what the other Decepticons did to them that made it a miserable experience.

A complete system reset required a low but important burst of current for the new start up, and having to supply two such bursts in such a short time period drained on Vortex’s already meager charge reserve. He hadn’t had time to recharge more than a fraction of what he’d expelled in the previous reset. Cybertronians weren’t meant to cold reboot this way. It wasn’t a passive power-down, like going into recharge, but an abrupt shutdown that went through none of the procedures. It stressed his processor by cutting everything off when the power stopped, and also taxed it because restarting meant wading through the collapsed mess left behind when the lights went out.

Task queues hadn’t closed properly or in the right order. The caches hadn’t flushed properly, leaving jumbled muddles as the initial dump from the prior shutdown had only been half-sorted by his processor before the second shutdown scrambled everything again. Everything was royal mess once he started back online as every processor had to deal with the problems. The forced shutdown triggered a number of autonomic system check-ups as well, since quite a few log-ins had not logged out because of the lack of proper shutdown procedures, leaving databanks and firewalls confused about the second primary user set of codes trying to sign in where he was already registered as being. The urgent verification requests pinging both sets of log-in credentials hit him one on top of the other, and until the ‘ghost’ of his past log-in cleared, the dual returns created multiple error notices that cluttered Vortex’s HUD and required vast amounts of processing power.

There was a reason why reboot was slow: the time was needed for deep unscrambling. This second time took even longer than the first. 

Vortex’s body was physically okay, but he felt like a drooling, hijacked wreck on the inside where his cortex had been electronically mauled. He hung limply, unable to see, hear, or feel anything, and his mind clung to the headache-inducing processor spurts as evidence that he wasn’t in the Box. It was close. Being unable to feel things was scarily similar, but he...he wasn’t...not that he could _do_ anything about it, which wasn’t reassuring and was in fact one of the more frightening facts of his existence right now.

That was a fact that he’d have done anything to forget about. What a shame that his helpless, machine malfunction-suspended mind had nothing more to do than dwell on every aspect of it. On every Overlord-ruled, Overlord-dictated, Overlord-owned detail of his pitiful life.

It took far, far too long before his sensor network started making actual connections again and transmitting data instead of random numbers. He felt colors for a while until his processors caught up and interpreted the data correctly as sound and started hearing it instead. He had approximately three seconds to savor the Primus-blessed onslaught of sensation before Overlord stripped even that teensy morsel of relief away.

Vortex jerked blindly as fingers snapped too close to his face. He was blind still, but his audio arrays had finally booted enough to register the sharp sound.

“Ah, Vortex. Vortex, Vortex, Vortex. Do pay attention. I think you are losing focus on our conversation.” The amused chuckle squealed across the Combaticon’s disoriented processors as garbage white noise. “Now, in light of the -- how shall we say, little episode you just had? I will assume that you do **not** , in fact, agree with our leader’s decision. Why is that, I wonder? Do you, perhaps, disapprove of the location Lord Megatron chose for the task? Or is something else **bothering** you?”

The frantic overrides to his audio array’s reset sequence were lost in Vortex’s slowly untangling priority queue. Overlord’s every word came through clearly, if poorly, and Vortex _heard_ Primus turn His back. The functioning parts of his processor that had registered the questions were already retrieving the relevant associated files.

_**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]** _

_No_ , not again! No no nonono _nonooh_ fragoh _frag_ ohfrag ohfrag ohfrag --

“Nunh, nrr- _scrk_ , no pleas _rrrrkr-krsss_ ir, please, Over _xkst_ lord sir!” His vocalizer crackled and spat static like a broken radio receptor as he manually booted it with half the drivers still offline. “ _skl-rii **eee** iiii_I can’t -- I _kurr-k_ an’t answer, please!”

The helicopter’s circuitry was all but screeching, sheeting thin flickers of electromagnetic energy off as it clawed at the open air between he and Overlord in a desperate attempt to communicate. It was an EM field drenched with submission and fear. Gross entreaty in energy form tried to meld to the larger Decepticon’s EM field and instead fell flat. He didn’t have the charge left to consciously push excess energy into his circuitry to project it further than a handspan off his plating. 

Vortex had been forced into shutdown more than a few times, but the prospect of it happening for a third time in the same day would scare anybody. To have it happen in the midst of another cold boot -- while being completely conscious, at that -- was preposterous. No processor was able to cope with something like that. And this time he didn’t even have enough spare processor power to actually try anything. He couldn’t evade the line of thought that led inevitably back to flipping the trigger!

_**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]** _

The smaller Decepticon whimpered and squirmed inside his plastic prison as the warnings climbed inexorably towards system restart. Panic made the volume of his pleading rise, like he’d somehow get through to Overlord’s nonexistent mercy if he just begged louder. “Overlord -- Overlord sir, **please**! Please -- I-I -- y-you -- just -- just tell me h-how -- what d-do you want me to do? Please, I’ll -- anything but -- I can’t, please, I-I can’t!” 

The words were nearly incoherent and stammered, the syllables barely filtering through static, but Vortex couldn’t stop the stream of blurted pleas regardless of how much sense they made. Maybe, if Overlord saw that Vortex conceded -- no, surrendered, this was utter surrender -- maybe then? The triple-changer was slagging victorious, now _please_ may he be gracious in victory and give the humbled loser something else to think about before -- 

Overlord’s massive hand cupped the side of his helm, the thumb grazing over the rotary mecha’s cheek in a mockery of tenderness. “What I want, Vortex?” Overlord bent until his deep red optics were level with Vortex’s visor, bare inches from it. His voice was a low rumble of contempt and malicious joy, and Vortex in-vented a huge gulp of air in a panicked gasp because that voice, for once, truthfully reflected how the triple-changer’s EM field felt. “I want you to answer,” Overlord said over the Combaticon’s beseeching whine, “I want you to **think** what you are going to answer before you say it, and I want you to think **why** you are answering that.”

_**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_   
_**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_   
_**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_

“ **No!** No ** _no_** no, wait!” _**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_ “Primus frag me, I want to! **Please** , I swear I do, I just **can’t**! I-I -- please, I -- ”

_**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]** _

The desperate words cut off as his frame powered down one more time.

The first thought that managed to swim through Vortex’s mind and register for more than a second before breaking apart again was that the ground had somehow flipped upside down. He held a muzzy sort of confusion for that, because then he’d have to be hanging from the roof. Since that was clearly not possible, his stumbling processors made the logical deduction that the roof must have migrated downward instead, and he was hanging downside up from the floor.

Yes, logic. He...didn’t really have much of it at the moment. Figuring out how gravity worked was the limit of his abilities, and that was straining something. It took him quite a while to sort out that he’d initially been wrong, and by then he’d forgotten what he’d been wrong about. Vortex wrung mental hands anxiously, but he couldn’t make sense of why he was worried. If his processors had been mecha, they’d have been crawling around his CPU machine code structure, face-planting amidst sporadic, spaced-out attempts to locate the temporal coordinates for his current set of wing aerofoils. That was interesting when he finally got around to remembering he was a rotary frame, not a jet, and therefore had rotors, not wings. And he wasn’t prone to time-travel, either, at least that he could recall at the moment.

His first _coherent_ thought was that his gyros had become misaligned, along with 90% of his sensory arrays, hence why he was registering noise in every input device he had _except_ his audios. Those were busy telling him what the color blue sounded like, which was unpleasant. He didn’t ever want to hear what neon green sounded like. The only successful ping that got answered came from his proximity sensors, but whatever information they could provide got lost as soon as the data packet left the hardware.

To say that Vortex’s processes were scrambled was like saying a black hole was a bit dark. He could only remember who he was thanks to the fact that neither his memory banks nor his personality component’s data files could be corrupted by incorrect booting, but his memory cache was gradually giving him cause to feel nothing but terror for this situation. The more it organized the tangled knots of recent events, the more the ‘copter huddled inside his consciousness and realized he did indeed have reason to worry. Worry, fear, and be helpless to do _anything_. 

His vital databanks were intact, but everything else had been thrown into a storm of conflicting information and trapped into dead-end start-ups that kept stalling out and restarting over and over again. His motor centers were trying to interpret the dates on his temporary memory files while his logic hubs sought to puzzle out the meaning of an old Cybertronian song, despite the fact that he was internally yelling at them that the tags on that memory file were completely wrong and not relevant to current events. He had heard the song once a long time ago, but due to the scrambled nature of his CPU right now, a third of his processing power had dedicated itself to understanding the lyrics because one of his logic hubs had caught it in a recursive loop.

This was a terrible thing to online to.

The little tight ball of data that was Vortex’s consciousness waited in agitated fear for the universe to make sense again. There was nothing else he could do. Control had been taken away, his computer core wrenched from beneath mental fingers, and all he could do was wait for the chaos to settle. He had to wonder if it ever would. His higher-thought data streams were onlining in his core processor so slowly he couldn’t tell if progress was ongoing until another one flashed as active. He had no way to know how long the reboot was taking, just that it felt like forever.

He was powerless, and that reminded him of the Detention Centre. Wasn’t that a bitter thought? He’d been afraid this whole time that he’d be left inside his own deactivated frame, dropped into stasis while still conscious, but this? This was another kind of sparkbox. He was still conscious inside it, just unable to do a single thing in the midst of chaotic software.

Maybe this was the new Box. Maybe Overlord had abandoned him, and this was Vortex’s punishment. He was going to be stuck here, trapped in his garbage-hash of system processes because he’d disobeyed, he’d _failed_ , he’d disappointed the officer...

Eventually, after Primus knew how long, the Combaticon’s input arrays finally matched the correct drivers and allowed the hardware to begin booting properly. Connections between data files and tasks were established, and he became, once again, a functional Cybertronian. More or less, at least. Vortex figured his systems wouldn’t be able to completely recover until he went through a complete defragmentation of his core files.

The first sensory data that reached him came from his corruption-resistant proximity sensors. They registered the ever-present plastic smothering most of his body, but the few sensors on the top half of his helm did a sweep and reported one other presence in the vicinity of his frame.

Vortex jolted in the bubblewrap, moving for the first time in what felt like an eternity. 

On the one hand: thank ye holy Primus, he hadn’t been abandoned to another Box and torment therein. On other hand, and this was the thought that caused his kneejerk fear reaction, what if Overlord had only stayed in case the system crash hadn’t finished him off? What if this wasn’t over? Overlord was still there, once again casually leaning against the doorframe, and Vortex’s helpful sensors informed him when that distance between him and the other Decepticon decreased. The triple-changer was approaching him.

Vortex would have done many things at this point, sobbing and begging for mercy chief among them, but his systems were still too disjointed to manage anything beyond clicking his vocalizer softly. With his audios and visor still catching up, he couldn’t tell if Overlord was doing anything besides approaching. He waited, praying to Primus, the Unmaker, the Flying Spaghetti Monster -- slaggit, to anyone and everything who might listen to Decepticons in need -- that the drone-fragging triple-changer had had enough. That he realized Vortex had learned his lesson. 

The ‘copter was exhausted, with a weariness that went much further than simple lack of charge. He lacked that, too, but his willpower had been sapped, and his pride had been beaten down. He was a sad sack of tired parts ready to give up. The Constructicons wouldn’t have bothered putting his internal metal creature into intensive care if it’d been dragged into the repairbay; they’d have given it up for dead and stuck it straight in the morgue. Vortex would have asked to be put down with the poor beast, for that matter. He was past the point of doing anything else. 

Yessir, Overlord sir. He’d learned his lesson, Overlord sir. 

Kliks passed, and eventually all of Vortex’s components came online. They were so full of bugs he had to restrict his HUD to just the optical feed to see anything besides warning pop-ups, but online nonetheless. It took longer to sort through the critical error cascade that flooded him when he tried accessing functions himself. Trying to refresh his optic sensors caused the whole array to crash again. 

There were a herd of tiny organic creatures in pain nearby, or at least that’s what it sounded like. That struck him as not quite right, but he was wary of refreshing his audios considering what had just happened to his optic sensors.

Vortex’s memory retrieval sluggishly went looking for audio files tagged with that decibel of squeaking. It browsed at the speed of a millenarian, rust-encrusted reference drone, but eventually the search supplied an associated recent file for the sound.

Oh. _Oooooh._

His helm jerked to the side as much as the plastic prison allowed, zeroing in on the noise as best as he could. The source wasn’t hard to find, but it was difficult to see. He refreshed his optic sensors, impatient that his visor could only load at the speed of an inchworm, and the morass of colors separated into vision very slowly. Between blocks of randomly colored pixels, he could just make out the shape of familiar huge hands splayed and rubbing deliberately back and forth against each other, fingers kneading every once and a while, and between the palms…in the middle...

The little helm twist was likely noticed by Overlord right away, but he waited until a strangled, hopelessly yearning whimper escaped the ‘copter before he tucked the little piece of bubbled plastic away into a gun hatch.

“Good to see you functioning again, Vortex. For a moment, I wondered if you weren’t **pretending** to be offline. Perhaps trying to deceive me, yes? That would have been...disgraceful.” The warlord spoke lightly, almost cheerfully, but that was a clear threat. A very clear threat. That threat was so clear discerning mecha could see the Pit yawning underneath it.

Vortex’s helm twitched frantically in minute side-to-side motions. Static rasped from his vocalizer in something that sounded like a hiccuped moan and was really the universe’s most desperate denial. “Nononono.”

Crimson optics narrowed, and Vortex went still and silent. Falling back into learned behavior like a released spring wasn’t even shameful anymore. He could only be relieved that at least he knew what he was supposed to do. Too late to change anything, but maybe he could avoid making his situation _worse_.

“Are you paying attention, Vortex?” Overlord asked, words couched in a tone so rich with authority only fools would dare defy it. The Combaticon swallowed glass shards of smashed pride and nodded, making indistinct little whispers of assent. Yes, yes, he was listening closely, _eagerly_ , as the officer took a step back and started walking that ominous circuit around him. The voice he listened to so carefully turned cruel. “I expect you to answer clearly. You were certainly easy enough to understand before, when you spoke of my -- How did you put it? My **errors** when dealing with you?” The words were unhurried and dark. “You must know I am still waiting for your elaboration on the subject. Do point my errors out for me, Vortex.”

Vortex’s vocalizer scratched and hitched in painful effort until words started pouring from the static. “ _Ksssshhhggh_ N-no err _rrsk_ errors! I’m- _guh-krrk_ I’m sorry, Overlord sir. I was _zzzzzghh_ stup _rrffk-kk-kk_ \-- “ He had to cough his vocalizer through reset and gave a panicked metallic squeal when it failed to initialize on the first try. No, please no, this couldn’t be happening to him! “ ** _Eeee-err_** rrksshhStupid! I was stupid and -- and I-I should have known _gghfshhh_ my place. I swear it won’t happen a- _gggghhh_ again! I’m sorry, I truly am -- ”

“Oh, are you?” said the triple-changer softly, cutting the pleas like a vibroblade going through vital circuitry. “Really? Are you truly sorry for your behavior? There is little reason for me to believe you. I find it hard to rely on your word. You did, as I recall, claim that I failed to keep my promises to you. Will you back that claim up, or will you retract that statement as well?”

Vortex’s vocalizer managed a dismayed wheeze as Overlord paused in front of him. The officer looked down his nose at him, and one side of the mecha’s full lips peeled upward into a contemptuous sneer. There was no way to make his response any less damning, yet that look demanded he try. 

“No, n- _klrk_ n-no sir -- I mean, **yes** _sllrk_. Yes, Overlord sir! I w-want to apologize for _-rrsh_ , uh, for slandering you. It was p-po _howr-klrk_ poor! Poor judgment on my part, and I’m sorry! I’m sorry pl _hhhklklshhh_ please! I’m being honest, I am! Let me _fffsh_ apologize! Please, Overlord **sir**! Allow me to t-tell you how _oowr- **rr** -shhhghhhk_ sorry I am, I'm really sorry, it won't happen again, just let me apologize for...for my _zzzzzt_ behavior. I -- I've been bad. I should have behaved. I should _rrrghhhzzsh_ have known better. I **do** know be- _errtk_ \-- better, and it won’t happen again!”

The repeated reboots were taking their toll. Exhaustion nagged already lagging processors. Vortex’s visor was starting to fritz out again as he focused single-mindedly on forcing his vocalizer to work. Keeping the hardware mildly operational and pulling words out of the static that made sense when put together -- well, it was two very difficult tasks he was trying to juggle at the same time, and he wasn’t doing all that well if the red optics narrowing at him were any judge of the situation.

Speaking was demanding all his available resources. His willpower was drained along with everything else, and he was fumbling what might be his only opportunity to salvage this situation. He just couldn’t dredge convincing words out of his jumbled, glitchy processors. The only thing that came through his inordinate amounts of messed up software was the quiet desperation the words reflected.

And fear. Vortex’s fear came through in every word and every screeping blurt of static as he reset and reset his vocalizer. It was the raw terror instinctively broadcasted on every level by the Combaticon’s base-code at the idea of his frame getting forcibly restarted again.

Overlord listened to the torrent of static-filled self-abasement, continuing his slow strides as Vortex poured apologies and pleas out in an uninterrupted flow. His optics narrowed, but he stayed mostly aloof. He had a somewhat bored expression, in fact. The ‘copter knew he couldn’t stop, not until he was told to, but that expression told him he wasn’t appeasing his tormentor, so he begged and implored harder until he was nearly hysterical with tired terror. The mind was scared, but the body was on its last legs.

He was almost grateful when Overlord stopped walking right behind him. Vortex stiffened and went quiet, cold fear icing his vocalizer to numbness, but at least something was happening. 

“I see,” the taller Decepticon said thoughtfully. “No, I don’t believe you’re sorry, Vortex -- not yet. I think you’ll experience **sorry** soon enough,” and that was an ugly promise indeed, “but repentance is a commendable thing. I’m encouraged that you’ve come to recognize the circumstances it belongs in.” Overlord placed a broad hand on Vortex’s helm and patted it helm twice: _’Good puppy!’_ “I felt as though you were attempting to prove me a liar by not learning anything after all this time, Vortex, but you wouldn’t do that, now would you?” The helm under that massive hand twitched in denial, because no no no, of course Vortex wouldn’t do that. Vortex was a good subordinate, he _was_ , just please let him demonstrate what a good subordinate he could be for his officer!

Vortex was suddenly reminded of what humiliation was. The hand on his helm patted him again, however, and the shame was chased by unwanted hope and a bitter dash of resented pleasure. Oh, he was so well-trained it was pathetic.

The hand smoothed to cup the exposed top and side of his helm as the triple-changer shifted, bending closer. “I believe you deserve a reward for learning, so here. Let me gift you with a piece of knowledge.” His voice lowered to something intimate. “I **always** keep my promises.”

Vortex felt a puff of warm air as Overlord ex-vented, and then that exaggerated mouth pressed lightly to the side of his helm. His sensor network would have been drunkenly overdosed by the contact at any other time, but now the ‘copter felt as if his whole frame had been doused with liquid nitrogen. His numbed vocalizer clicked frantically and couldn’t summon a single sound of freaked-out protest.

Overlord was using the gentle contact to ground his EM field, focusing it through the light brush of his lips speaking against Vortex’s helm. His circuitry forced the energy on Vortex’s faltering systems in an overwhelming surge that crackled under Vortex’s plating. The ‘copter hadn’t been able to perceive the electromagnetic field until then, his body too taxed to understand even its own functions much less Overlord’s, and now he whined pitifully as his circuitry was invaded. Overlord’s energy swamped him like a bonfire falling on a candle, and it seeped in to taint his own EM field until he couldn’t help but feel everything forced on him.

Overlord thrummed with undiluted pleasure at the Combaticon’s helpless pain and terror. He rejoiced at the cruelty inflicted on his captive, and soaring over every pleasure-soaked pulse of his glee was his certainty of absolute control. He felt sadistic enjoyment, and he held nothing back as he pushed what he felt into Vortex.

Vortex shuddered and made a sobbing sound of utter despair, vents drawing in air that reeked of oncoming torture. There was no hope for mercy from this Decepticon. None at all.

“I promise you that you will learn obedience,” the triple-changer said, his lips scraping against Vortex helm. The words vibrated throughout Vortex’s whole shaking body. “You will learn respect and to do as you are told, and you will do so **gratefully**. You will adore every glance I give you, hang off any word I see fit to toss in your direction, and praise Lord Megatron for sending you to me for the discipline you deserve. And when I am done, I promise that you will not hesitate a single klik in ripping your own spark-case out if I order you to.” The voice breathing in Vortex’s audio husked, sickeningly excited, and Vortex trembled in its wake. “There is nothing you can do to stop me. There is nothing you can gather from your memory files or your supposed wits that will prevent this from happening. All this, Vortex, I am promising to you now.”

The last words whispered against metal, and Overlord’s lush mouth angled to press a lingering kiss to the side of the trapped mecha’s helm.

When he finished, Overlord straightened and stepped away, pulling the long, sucking tendrils of his EM field out of the shivering ‘copter. Vortex’s intakes seized up as his tanks tried to auto-purge, resulting in a faint retching noise as the triple-changer returned to slowly circling around him. Terror had Vortex shaking, visor wide and blank, but he didn’t need to see to feel how Overlord fell back into that self-satisfied, vaguely amused demeanor.

“I do hope what I just said makes it to your long-term memory files quickly enough. It would be such a pity if it got lost in the cache wipe. I would hate to have to repeat myself.”

Processor still crippled by panic and cluttered by dealing with the energy field intrusion, Vortex didn’t have time to consciously register the threat before his spark constricted. Comprehension caught up as the hulking officer stepped in front of him and stopped, observing him with a patronizing little smile.

“Now, where were we? Ah, yes. You were about to enlighten me on what aspects of our Supreme Commander’s orders you disagreed. You may proceed now,” Overlord said.

Vortex screamed.

_**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]** _

As the warnings started cascading inexorably, all he could think of was the need to escape, to get out of reach of this terrible being that was breaking his mind into shiny pieces in order to arrange them prettily afterwards. Pretty shiny pieces that resembled Vortex not at all but faithfully reflected Overlord’s visage. 

Unless he managed to leave this place, everything Overlord had promised would come true. He had to get out of here.

And then Vortex dissolved away into black nothingness.  
.  
.  
.  
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	13. Chapter 13

**0 0 Part Thirteen 0 0**

 

Darkness.

He’d never cherished it before now. Right until that moment, he’d been indifferent to it at best and reminded of excruciatingly silent vorns at worst. He’d had no optic sensors in the Box to register as black, but the lack of input hadn’t stopped him from being conscious enough to know he couldn’t see. While he wasn’t _afraid_ of the dark, not like Brawl, Vortex hadn’t felt much of anything toward it, either. It had been an asset and a tool not unlike a scalpel for use on those of his victims weak enough for that tactic, but he’d never thought of it as something that _felt_ good. Not until now.

Vortex didn’t know how long the last reboot had taken, nor how long he had been in emergency recharge. He’d gone from one to the other without enough pause to notice the change. He hadn’t even onlined completely in between. As soon as all the essential bits had become functional, his frame had powered down on its own out of complete exhaustion and scrambled processors. Letting his mind stay down had been a small mercy. He had a feeling he wouldn’t have enjoyed what restarting had felt like.

The ‘copter regained consciousness groggily, processors spooling up to online status as the defrag procedures finally closed. His visor lit slowly, registering black emptiness, and his circuits sang with relief. The room was _dark_ and _empty_. There were no red optics watching him, and no one waiting. His few uncovered proximity sensors confirmed that there was no one behind him, and his vents eased out the tense in-vent he’d involuntarily sucked in. He was alone, and that was _everything_ right now.

No Overlord in sight meant no more rebooting. No more exploitation of a weakness Vortex hadn’t known he could fear quite so much. What he wouldn’t _give_ for the clumsy attempts to glitch him from the other Decepticons. There were annoyances, and then there was Overlord, and Vortex vastly preferred the other Decepticons’ irritating, somewhat painful pranks to the triple-changer’s precision cruelty. A good portion of his processor was still so terrified at the prospect of further torture that it kept boosting proximity scans to the top of his priority queue.

_Ping_. Nope, no one nearby. Vortex was perfectly alone, and this was good.

It was also odd. Not the solitary confinement -- that was, sadly, nothing new -- but the circumstances of his imprisonment had changed. The lights had never switched off in this room. Throughout his enforced stay at Chez Overlord, the lights had remained on. Vortex had first assumed it was some kind of simple mind-fragging technique, one more thing to prevent him from measuring time, but eventually he’d realized that was unnecessary. The triple-changer didn’t have to pull any tricks with lights; Overlord could actually do the real thing and just leave him in this room for ages. Time-wasting didn’t seem to be much of an issue for Overlord.

The lights had probably been left on because of an automated system, then, meaning that they had to have been deliberately turned off. It didn’t make sense, which worried the Combaticon. Why darkness after so long? 

It went from being a comfort, an assurance of solitude, to a concern in the space of an instant. Overlord had done it. There had to be a sinister reason why --

The faintest _clang_ of metal on metal sounded, and Vortex’s processor urgently accessed his scanning hardware for updates. Proximity sensors _ping-ping_ ed worriedly, and his visor bleached for a second as he pored over the results repeatedly just in case he’d missed something the first four times. Nothing registered. 

The noise happened again, however, and then again, and one side of Vortex’s visor twitched nervously as metal dragged _scrrrrrrrrd-klik-klik_ from somewhere to... somewhere. Somewhere distant, or were the sounds just very quiet? He didn’t know. The series of clinks and draggings repeated in a cycle, either far away or just lightly done, until he was jittery with _ping-ping-ping_ s and frantic data analysis. 

The noises stopped. He had no idea if that was a good thing or not.

The sounds brought to his attention another change in the room: the door was open. He could only see the wall opposite considering how he was bound, but he could barely see anything at all with how his optical sensors had only the light of his visor to work with. Every other sensor was muffled by plastic or had been taken offline through the connections with his weapons’ system, but he strained his few uncovered proximity sensors at that open door. For all he knew, Overlord was just outside the door. The mysterious noises were alarming because he didn’t know their source.

The echoes had never been so noticeable; he had no idea if they were normal noises that the door had previously filtered out, or if Overlord was rearranging the corpses of his enemies today. Or perhaps the noises were utterly normal, but not being able to see was making his processor prioritize the audio feed more than usual? Corpse-arranging could be one of Overlord’s regular hobbies, and Vortex’s audios had just logged the noises as background until today. Vortex couldn’t tell, but it didn’t matter that much. What mattered was _who_ was making that sound.

Every sound could be Overlord taking a step closer. Every clink could be the triple-changer preparing to confront him again.

_Klak-ting!_

_Ping._ Alone? Alone. Was he sure? _Ping-ping._ Yes, alone. Good.

...no, seriously. Was he absolutely sure? _Ping-ping-ping-ping._

The ‘copter fretted, trying to lean toward the open door as if he could catch more sounds that way. Had the fragger been monitoring him and was coming back now that Vortex was online? Could the quiet sounds be a drone? There was no way he was lucky enough that it was some other mecha. It had to be Overlord -- or a drone. Please let it be a drone!

He didn’t think he could face Overlord right now. His tanks were roiling with anxiety, and his rotor hub was flexing helplessly inside its rewrapped plastic prison. His shoulders tensed and failed to move as another tiny sound drifted through the open door:

_Shffff._

_Ping-ping-ping!_

Sick gratitude pulled at the base of his spark when his scanning hardware insisted there was no one there. He wasn’t even sure who he was grateful _to_ , but some cosmic entity had decided Overlord wasn’t about to walk into the room, and therefore Vortex was grateful to it. Two more paranoid pings revealed the same lack of anything nearby, and Vortex’s tense cables trembled slightly as they relaxed. He was safe, for the time being. He didn’t know for how long, but he couldn’t do anything about that so he wasn’t going to worry about it.

He was more worried about the odd anxiety creeping up on him. There was nervous paranoia about Overlord approaching, of course, but every time his scanning hardware updated, a different anxiety washed over him. It had a different source, one that felt odd and contradictory, and he was trying very hard not to think where those pangs of uneasiness were coming from. Something under the surface of his mind curled in on itself, starting to crave, and this was _not_ the time to think about that.

Vortex squirmed restlessly, resetting his visor rapidly since it was the only pseudo-motion he could manage. He _wished_ he could blink away the kneading claws starting to perforate his mind. Claws of need worked at the underside of his thoughts, making his attempts at rational thought a little shakier by the minute, a little more ragged around the edges. Right now the burst of an air pocket wasn’t important. It never was! It was just a tiny popping sound! But right now, even less important than usual.

Yes. Really. 

Not thinking about it, he wasn’t, nope.

_Plink._

_Ping-ping._ He tried to stop thinking about the bubble sound and dwelled on his relief that Overlord wasn’t near. _Ping._ Yep, sure wasn’t near. 

That was a _good thing_ , and smelt any part of his cortex that thought otherwise!

The Combaticon ripped his thoughts out of that well-worn rut and turned to hastily reviewing recent events. He had been outmaneuvered. All the pain and humiliation was secondary to that important fact. Which was exactly what it was, because he couldn’t change it. It was a fact, and he had better get used to it real quick. He simply couldn’t beat the other Decepticon at this game.

In reality, it wasn’t a game at all, at least not anymore. It had probably ceased to be so a long time ago, but Vortex was -- or rather, _had been_ \-- too proud to acknowledge that this was Overlord’s game, not his. He was the toy. Helicopter-dolly didn’t want to play, but like any toy, helicopter-dolly didn’t have a choice. The point hadn’t been ground into him this thoroughly until now, and now Vortex had been horribly humbled before it.

He couldn’t think of any way to evade, bend, or block what Overlord was doing. As much as he had thought this very same thing before, the consequences were far more clear after the multiple forced reboots. He had never been more hard-pressed to find a solution, yet so bitterly aware that helicopter-dolly was going to be played with however Overlord wished. 

Beyond the doorway, something went _clink-tonk._

Fear rushed through the Combaticon’s systems. _Ping. Ping-ping-ping._

Alone! Yes, okay. That was...good. Wasn’t it?

Yes, of course it was good. It had to be good! He wouldn’t let it be not-good, because not-good would imply that he wanted something different than that, and he didn’t. He didn’t at all.

Vortex gritted his teeth and diverted what power he could to his sensors, combing the resulting tiny increase in data for what he could again and again. He would _not_ be cowed by this. It was a change in tactics, not a completely shift in circumstances. Darkness and an open door would not send him into a panic. Frantically guessing at whatever was going _tink_ in the dark was just wasting his time. He needed an answer, and for that he needed to concentrate.

Vortex _knew_ that Overlord would have to unwrap him eventually. His logic hubs assured him of the validity of that statement, and he could trust them for the moment, however useless they were the rest of the time here. So Overlord would have to return him to Earth when the benefits of Bruticus came to outweigh the amount of irritation Vortex had caused Megatron. _Lord_ Megatron, that was. Lord Megatron to him from now on, because the ‘copter wasn’t going to risk getting sent _back_ to Overlord’s tender mercies once he was finally released. Chalk one triumph up for the fat-lipped fragger: the Combaticon was going to keep his head down for a while, keeping himself out of the Supreme Commander’s sight and hopefully out of mind.

But for that escape to happen, Vortex would have to either wait until Megatron decided Bruticus couldn’t be spared from the war effort anymore (and what a fantastic strategy that has been so far), or he’d have to...comply.

The word tasted like crude petroleum in Vortex’s mouth, thick and disgustingly organic, but it was the purest drop of fine high-grade to his deep code. It thirsted for that compliance. Everything below the uneasy calm of his higher functions felt parched, just waiting to soak up orders and directions like an obedient sponge until his machine beast waxed fat and happy under an outpouring of officer approval. That was the part of him seeping a poisonous anxiety counter to his more rational fear. 

The uneasiness grew, and Vortex couldn’t ignore it. He tried, but the need was carving out great chunks of his willpower. His pathetic, already frail strength of conviction had been drilled through by the facts at this point, but now the need to _not_ be alone was undermining even the flimsy skeleton left over. The craving had been closing in to usurp his fear. Rationally, he feared that Overlord would return, but that would imply that Overlord _wouldn’t_ return, and --

Vortex, _focus_ for frag’s sake!

Overlord had been running this rigged game from the first, just playing Vortex, but even through all the pleading, the Combaticon had always nursed his defiant spark...hadn’t he? He wasn’t sure anymore. He’d been doing exactly what the sadistic slagger wanted so far. He’d bent, contorting like a pretzel. He’d begged for the stupid plastic bubble because he hadn’t had an alternative. To his gestalt-links, it was either scramble after the teensiest substitute or go crazy, and the gestalt-coding was the part that controlled him when the training began. He begged because he didn’t have a choice. It was either bend, or be overridden by his body and code when the blasted plastic was in Overlord’s hand.

He had never _wanted_ it. The sound itched through his fuel lines, but he didn’t want it. His spark pulsed with greed at the thought, however, and strained to hear it. There were little tetchy sounds of internal gears turning, and the gurgle of fuel in his tanks. They were unimportant, and he couldn’t hold onto them. They slid away, ignored background noise that didn’t matter because that one lovely, horrible, all-too-brief sound was absent.

His spark gave a funny little backflip when another noise echoed in the dark. It would have been unimportant, too, but Vortex didn’t know what it was.

It could be Overlord!

_Ping-ping! Ping._

Not Overlord. The Combaticon’s fuel pump hammered in his chest, and he couldn’t quite tell anymore if the results reassured or disappointed him. Either way, his pump rate steadied again. For the moment, anyway. It’d pick up the second he heard another noise, he knew. He was still alone. Everything was good, and perfectly fragged up.

He could feel how bad off he was. He turned inwards, pulling up his own system logs to check. He watched, nauseated, as his logs showed just how his functions had been taken out of his control. The danger of another forced restart should have remained at the top of his priority list. He could easily call up the files from the month after being reactivated under the loyalty programming; the danger of cold reboots had led to his CPU constantly reminding itself that certain thought patterns had to be avoided, certain mecha had to be avoided, certain behaviors had to stop. When he compared then and now, his spark lurched. Instead of that entirely reasonable reaction this time, the restart warning signs and associated caution had been consistently kicked down the priority list one proximity ping at a time.

Tags for the -- _frag Primus and His rusted creator aft!_ The slagging pop sound had worked its way back up the list! The fragging _statis protocols_ were active again! How was that even possible? Had the darkness triggered them to activate faster? Had rewrapping shut off his coolant pumps again out of sheer, blasted familiarity? How long had he been in recharge?

How had Overlord _done_ this to him?!

There was an undertow building in the back of his head. It strengthened, sucking at his conscious mind, and Vortex made a muted sound of despair. The support structure for his programs was starting to insistently nudge him in the cables, asking for more proximity checks, but Vortex feared they had little to do with reassurance. His deep code wanted something very badly, and very persistently. The fact was that Overlord had him exactly where the triple-changer wanted him in order to exploit the needy internal metal creature that was Vortex.

He didn’t want to, he truly didn’t, but the ‘copter couldn’t stop himself. There was no sound, but now there didn’t have to be. Now, the silence triggered him.

It was an extremely familiar situation to be in.

_Ping._ He waited, straining to catch something and hating himself for _hoping_ to do so. _Ping?_

The Combaticon knew the sounds of Overlord’s systems, every single hiss of his hydraulics and the two-toned heavy clangs of his stride. Vortex yearned to hear the buzzing thrum of a large power plant he had only heard while idle. He wanted to listen to the minute creaking of multiple layers of armor-thick altmode kibble from a mecha made for three transformations. He had catalogued the sounds once, trying to find anything in them out of boredom and a desperate search for some weakness in the officer. His analysis of the sounds had yielded nothing except familiarity. Overlord’s system-sounds were as intimately familiar to him as the sound of his own combiner team by now.

He longed so _badly_ to hear them. That, and the other set of sounds he had internalized to a close meld into his own desires that no lover and not even his own combiner team had managed. His gestalt bond itself longed for the slight, slick scrape of soft plastic against polished metal. He wanted the tiny squeaking sounds of air and plastic under almost enough pressure. 

What would he do for those noises? No, what _wouldn’t_ he do? That list was shorter, and getting shorter the more time that passed. He obsessed over that list, picking out the options he thought would please Overlord the most and wondering vaguely how he could get ready to do them. Because if Overlord was gracious enough to allow him the chance, Vortex wanted to be ready. Had to be ready, and he’d be sure to thank his officer for the opportunity to show how obedient he could be. He imagined what he’d have to do to demonstrate what a good subordinate he was and shivered, but even as horror chilled the inside of his tanks, he wished fervently that Overlord would come soon.

The Combaticon knew the triple-changer could walk in any klik now. Maybe tomorrow, or next week, or -- or maybe next _month_ , and he shuddered at the thought. He could barely wrap his cringing mind around the concept of not having even the smallest chance at earning Overlord’s fickle favor for that long. Forgiveness was too much to hope for, but if he was exceedingly lucky, Vortex might be able to…regain his officer’s attention? The tiny opportunity to not be looked at as a disappointment? If he could somehow manage that, then he could do his best to earn some leniency, just enough to be _permitted_ to follow orders. 

And then...and then perhaps, just maybe, Overlord might eventually see fit to reward him with that precious, all-encompassing noise. The burst of a single bubble...

The plastic around the Combaticon’s head crinkled slightly when he jolted, snapping out of his reverie. His visor slid to its widest extension, and he whimpered somewhere in the back of his throat as he realized just how low he’d sunk.

Vortex had spaced-out thinking with dreamy longing about Overlord’s systems and, yes, driving his scanning hardware senselessly with nonstop pinging trying to get positive feedback. He had no idea how long he’d zoned out. Several kliks, at best. Hours, at worst.

He wanted to vomit. If he could only purge the twisted, artificial craving like tainted fuel!

The discrepancy flared in his mind, an almost physical line where internal code clashed against his conscious thoughts. It was unstoppable. The wild craving deep inside rose to the surface, pushing against what he knew was logical, and he could see it subsuming him. It stained his thoughts, spreading like dye through a sponge, and it turned him inside out without a single concrete reason. He wanted everything he shouldn’t, and Vortex was helpless to stop the _need_ gutting him, slow and excruciating.

He was terrified of Overlord’s return, as it would most likely bring more forced restarts. After what he’d been put through, it was painfully clear the officer was doing whatever he wanted. The game was meant to make Vortex suffer, no matter what other goals would be met at the finish line. What Overlord wanted was to cause the Combaticon pain and panic, and he’d found the right button for that. Overlord had discovered how to make Vortex _squirm_. 

Vortex had gone under screaming, and he knew that he’d shriek for mercy if Overlord threatened to repeat the torment of multiple reboots. Vortex was a warrior, an interrogator, and not a glass sculpture by any means, but he was a Cybertronian. He could only take so much, and Overlord had found the button labeled _‘Breaking Point.’_

The Combaticon had suffered a sparkbox already. He knew what enough deliberate mistreatment could do to mecha’s mind, and he’d experienced a tank-sinking dose of that medicine himself, enough to make the link between a new Box and that particular punishment. He couldn’t go back in the Box again. He just couldn’t.

The problem being that Overlord had found that magic button to push. Why should he let up on it? Would Vortex have, if their positions were reversed? No. Primus help him, no. He wouldn’t have, and Overlord made Vortex look like an Autobot. He could admit that now, facing the fact that he was outclassed and outmaneuvered and so screwed drills were envious. Overlord was going to mash that loyalty programming key over and over again for the sheer, unadulterated sadistic joy of watching Vortex self-destruct.

Overlord had already made good on his promises. However much Vortex hated it, his coding had undeniable learned. The metallic beast uprooting his logic hubs like a cyberhound digging up a rusted girder would sit up and beg on command. More importantly, it _wanted_ to. It knew that just being allowed to scrape and plead for the opportunity to obey would be a mercy beyond mercies after Vortex’s stupid act of defiance. Not that Vortex himself didn’t regret every moment of his ill-fated attempt to defy Overlord, but his internal code-creature was ready to throw him out of the driver’s seat and start submitting all over the place if he didn’t do it first. 

Vortex _would_ , as Overlord had promised, be grateful. His deep code _would_ adore Overlord as it followed his every command. Vortex wouldn’t have a choice about that, because everything but his higher functions had been tamed to heel, and even those were glumly coming to terms with reality.

What could Vortex expect, when -- not if, please not _if_ \-- Overlord returned? The addicted junkie inside Vortex’s structure knew what disobedient little untrained subordinates could expect: deprivation. Overlord might even _punish_ him this time, and Vortex’s spark shriveled at the thought of what the triple-changer would consider punishment. Months alone? Statis-lock? Complete abandonment?

Primus spare him, he’d been put through so much already that the mere idea of something new terrified him. The unknown had become scary instead of an open possibility. The training was safe. Incredibly terrible, but at least Vortex knew what to expect.

But he’d disappointed Overlord. The Decepticon officer was under no obligation to give him another opportunity to prove himself a good subordinate. The massive mecha could just come back whenever he wanted a bit of entertainment, when he wanted to watch Vortex crash again and again, not when there was training to be done. Vortex desperately tried to hold onto the knowledge that Bruticus was important, the Combaticons as a united team were valuable, but his conviction slipped through his fingers as fast as he could gather it. Was he a worthwhile soldier given to a harsh trainer as a pet project, or just an amusing reward for a sadistic officer?

He didn’t know, and that scared him. It scared him, and that made him want the relative safety of the training even more.

Before, Vortex had wanted the bubble. He’d wanted it, and had been willing to do anything to get it. The tiny, infinitesimal chance of earning his fix of the popping noise had been worth total obedience.

Now Vortex had gone one step further. He’d transitioned from wanting the bubble -- the spurt of substitute gestalt activity, his fix -- to craving the conditioning itself. There was no reward without training, after all. He couldn’t be a good ‘copter for his officer if his officer didn’t command him.

The part of Vortex that recognized himself as a conscious being was on the metaphorical losing side. It could _see_. It could watch the other part, the metal code-beast of raw instinct and basic program cradles, and it marked the conditioning’s progress on that subconscious creature. That self-aware part of him was the part plunging into a sort of numb terror in slow-motion. It could see how the training had gradually tuned his systems to the sound of its need, amplifying the _ache_ for the noise that Overlord had carefully written between the lines of his gestalt code.

The I-Vortex piece of the Combaticon’s mind writhed under the weight of the warped code, but as much as he disagreed with the changes, it was impossible not to listen to them. He _had_ to listen. A large, growing part of him _wanted_ to listen, because that was what _Overlord_ wanted him to pay attention to. The triple-changer had made sure to cut off every other path.

The conditioning told him to be a good soldier. To be silent and turn left at the command of _‘left,’_ right at the command of _‘right.’_ It reminded him of his place under Overlord’s feet, his place in the Decepticon ranks under his officer, and the meek internal creature also known as Vortex listened. 

And because that part of Vortex listened, Vortex’s vocalizer automatically prepared itself to apologize and beg. His body twitched inside the plastic, circuitry itching under his armor as it tried to become more receptive and ready to pay the most dedicated attention to the subtleties of Overlord’s electromagentic energy. Anything, any hint at all in that EM field, might help him parse what the right answer was.

In all of this lay the nebulous possibility of someday earning the bubble reward, and perhaps even, although it was probably too much to dare hope, maybe he wouldn’t have to be afraid of being restarted again. If the training resumed, and he was obedient enough. If Overlord thought he was worth training anymore. If the officer cared to even consider the idea of continuing to train the disgraceful disappointment that was Vortex.

It was sickening that Vortex thought that, but a large portion of him believed it was true. He _was_ a disgrace, and a sticky, sorrowful ball of regrets and shame for his behavior made a lump in his tanks that wouldn’t process. He knew it was the conditioning speaking, not his own thoughts, but he still couldn’t stop blaming his faults for Overlord’s absence right now.

The Combaticon hated himself so much right then, Overlord wasn’t even a close second. Undiluted self-hatred for his weaknesses and idiocies and -- and smelt him, all the _mistakes_ he’d made, he’d been a rusted moron from the very start! That kind of hatred was far richer than anything that could be directed at anyone else.

In the middle of his self-loathing, Vortex felt himself accept the facts. The popping sound was now a basic necessity in his life. Fuel, coolant, safe refuge, gestalt bond, and the _**POP**_. Not necessarily in that order.

Because he _was_ Vortex, drowning as he was inside his own mind, he knew how this warped, distorted, horrible situation worked. Overlord had made sure he was aware, curse him for a fool, and therefore the ‘copter could translate the necessities into appropriate real-world terms: Fuel, coolant, safe refuge, gestalt bond, and obey, beg, grovel all over the floor, cater to Overlord’s every whim, and ultimately hope for mercy. Definitely not in that order.

He raged against it, hot fury rushing through his tubes like fuel as he tried to do something, anything, but no. His body was held physically helpless, and Overlord had stripped his mind’s defenses away line by line. The craving had nothing to do with logic, or even will. It just was. It had etched into him by an external source, and it was solid like the blasted metal he stood on -- that was, if he wasn’t suspended above it by untold layers of plastic. Aha ha. Ha.

…he was so screwed.

Vortex’s visor had gone the lifeless, dull red of a drone’s optics. Something far away made a noise, but his auto-response scan was listless. Behind his face mask, his mouth didn’t hold any expression. The reality of his situation left him feeling bitter and hollow. The defiance was still there, but the _ability_ to defy Overlord’s training had been torn from him. That was the truly diabolical part of the slagger’s methods: Vortex’s mind hadn’t been changed about anything, but Overlord had steadily taken away all choices but utter obedience.

He had been looking for a solution? There was no Primus-fragged solution. There was no way to eel around the conditioning, and he couldn’t escape this plastic blanket prison Pit. Even if he could think of a way free, he couldn’t think the changes back out of his coding! He couldn’t so long as the loyalty programming ruled him, and that certainly wasn’t about to disappear. The gestalt code had his machine substructure under its sway, leaving half of his processors already warmed up to the idea of being Overlord’s...whatever the frag the sadistic glitch wanted him to be.

Vortex felt a strong pang of agreement from somewhere deep and gurgling with machinery. _Happy_ agreement, like a cyberpuppy wriggling in glee at the sight of a treat, but it was him responding to the subservience slathered throughout that last thought. It was him, the part gaining ground every day that his conscious mind couldn’t suppress, and the ‘copter keened softly in response. It was a little sound, choked by self-hatred and honest sorrow.

Overlord didn’t even had to do anything more. Vortex’s processor was already corrupted enough that hearing -- 

The ‘copter paused. That last thought struck a note in him. Something about hearing was important.

He took that fragmented idea and turned it over in his head. 

That...could be a solution, perhaps. A poor excuse for one, but right now, a lousy attempt was still better than nothing. It was the blasted _sound_ that triggered the cascade of screeching nightmare desperation, right? Sure, he wanted the touches, but it was the stupid bubble popping sound he craved with the all-consuming need of an addict. But, like mecha addicted to circuit speeders, it was possibly to break an addiction if the mecha were physically separated from the next fix. 

Maybe, if the other Combaticons were present, or at least other Decepticons to fulfill the itching, crawling _need_ , Vortex would be able to to wean himself off the inane plastic air pocket. Lacking that option, however, quitting cold might still be an option. No, he couldn’t alter his core programming back to normal, but he might be able to just outright escape the stimulus/response cycle that was feeding the trained behavior. Maybe he could avoid activating it entirely, if he could get away from the triple-changer and his code-deep conditioning. Bodily away, putting enough physical distance between them to prevent himself from hearing Overlord’s orders and thus falling prey to the sick urge to place himself under the triple-changer’s heel. 

Theoretically, the plan was solid. The bubble noise was what brought him to his knees, and it was going to be absolute torture to power through the junkie-cravings for that auditory drug. Yet if he could escape Overlord, he could find someone else to fulfill his gestalt-link’s pathetic need for interaction, and that should keep the torment down to a mere stroll through the Pit. Other mecha would keep his overactive statis protocols down even if the physical activity didn’t, and once he got clear of Overlord, Vortex would beg, borrow, bribe, threaten, or stow-away back to Earth and his combiner team. 

Iron ore and _scrap_ , even thought of combining with his team made his systems twist tight and hot. Combining had to be enough to break the conditioning’s hold on his gestalt code! As for the bubble noise, well, the plastic from _from_ Earth; there had to be more somewhere on the planet. He could pay Swindle to find him some, and from there work on reducing his dependency himself. Most important of all, once he reached Earth, he could go before Megatron -- _Lord_ Megatron -- and convince the Supreme Commander that returning him to Overlord’s tender mercies was unnecessary.

Then he could actually be free.

He just had to get away from Overlord. Out of sight and audio range completely, because if Overlord held the bubbles over his head or gave him an order, Vortex’s plans would collapse like Onslaught’s strategy had before Shockwave’s troops. A direct order would be bad enough -- the ‘copter wasn’t too sure he could defy those anymore -- but Overlord knew how to knock the struts out of him, now. Given half a chance, Overlord would trigger the loyalty programming, and everything would be over.

Getting away was the plan. It didn’t bring him hope. Not like Vortex had assumed having a plan would. Cooperation was the only strategy left to him, because only by Overlord’s grace would he be released from this plastic-bound Pit. If he was cooperative and a good subordinate Decepticon who never contemplated insolence toward his superiors, eventually Overlord had to free him.

That, of course, relied on Overlord returning, which he wasn’t so sure would happen. He hoped, but no. He _had_ to believe Overlord would return, or he would go mad with fear.

So, at some point in the -- dear Primus, please let it be near -- future, Overlord would return. Vortex didn’t know how much torment and training it would take until the triple-changer unwrapped him enough for escape to be viable, but he had to be prepared to go along with the fragger’s disturbing games. ‘Copter-dolly needed to stay alive and sane, so ‘copter-dolly would be his cruel officer’s plaything. He would be an obedient entertainment in order to get his sanity-preserving bubble-pop...for a while longer.

That time period was going to be like being force-fed toxic waste swill not even Swindle could sell. Vortex was going to have to eat his words, purge them back up, and slurp them down again with piles of groveling humility heaped on top of every moment of compliance from now on. The Combaticon trembled inside the layers of plastic as he thought about what to do when Overlord returned. This was going to be most unpleasant. Temporary, yes, he clung to that thought, but it was little comfort.

Because Overlord _would_ return. Please.

_Ping-ping. Ping? Ping?_

Vortex shuddered violently, backwashed in aching need swirled with fading relief. The ache won out in the end, as he’d known it would, and the metal beast curled up around his spark whined quietly using his vocalizer. His code firmly suggested the the natural thing to do, the _right_ thing to do. It was a suggestion only in that he either did it or his sniveling base structure would do it for him while he futilely protested as a passenger in his own mind.

The ‘copter sighed and begun choosing his words carefully. Perhaps, if his pleading used pretty enough words while debasing himself entirely, if it was honest enough and appealed to the rusted afthead’s vanity and pride, if he managed to convey just how much, how _much_ he was sorry...maybe. 

He wasn’t done fighting yet, strange as this battleground was. Vortex wasn’t that easy to break. He just hoped Overlord didn’t figure that out before he was more than the sound of rotor blades fleeing in the distance.

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	14. Chapter 14

**0 0 Part Fourteen 0 0**

 

The secondary security monitor bank in Overlord’s living space was almost dark, its links to the control room disabled but for a few pieces of still-functioning tech scattered throughout the base. Most of the salvageable installations had been taken out when the Decepticons abandoned this outpost. It’d been out of use for most of the war, and there was no need to refurbish an entire base for the use of two mecha and three drones. Overlord had requested the installation of new security monitors and sensors around certain areas, but those were turned inward and keyed to observe one specific ‘copter. 

He wasn’t exactly worried about a sudden attack by Autobots. It’d be a nice bit of exercise, really. He’d personally spent some of his copious free time fixing up some of the perimeter alarm installations just so he’d have some warning to put down his bookfile before an attack. That, and idle boredom. Some interest in keeping his hand in on repair work, too. It wasn’t often that he found himself needing mechanical expertise, but it was always useful to maintain an unexpected skillset. Mecha like Vortex never expected powerful officers to be able to do more than use their fists, but as Overlord had proven multiple times to the smaller Decepticon, physical threat was only one of his many tools.

He was formidable enough physically that he’d left the outpost’s defensive installations as nothing but rusted hulls. Fixing up the perimeter alarms had required rewiring and adjusting the transmitters to once again connect with the receivers at the outpost. It had almost been more work than originally planned because the control room inside the outpost had been stripped down to the wall paneling.

Overlord had left it a gutted room and instead run the bare bones of an alert system down to the room he’d claimed as his own. It was more comfortable there, with his stash of high grade and some truly fascinating reading files. He’d set up a secondary security monitor bank across from the set of screens he’d been using to observe his guest.

That bank had remained dark. Nothing moved on this barren rock but the two Cybertronians and three drones inside the outpost. The perimeter remained undisturbed.

It had, anyway, until a certain helicopter had barreled across it. None of the alarms had tripped, because the system was set up to detect invasions, not escapes. Overlord had been mildly amused by that oversight once he’d woken up from his nap. He’d even debated stirring himself to change the system parameters, but the ultimate goal wasn’t to change anything here but one mecha: the Combaticon.

Vortex had been a fugitive for almost two weeks, now. Well, as much of a fugitive as someone who wasn’t pursued and was free to come and go as he liked could be. Overlord certainly hadn’t chased him. The feisty little mecha hadn’t returned, either, and the security monitors had remained in power-save mode.

Except a notification from the furthest perimeter sensor had recently begun popping up. The screens had been completely dark for weeks, but roughly two days ago, a green line of glyphs had appeared:

**[Energy signature detected.]**

The accompanying coordinates came through a few kliks later. The sensor blipped, message delivered, and the green glyphs stayed steady until the next pass by the sensor registered a change. The energy signature retreated, the coordinates spooled out to the limit of the sensor’s range, and then the screen went dark. Every few kliks, it blinked briefly as the system re-checked the information. Sometimes the energy signature was there. Sometimes it retreated out of range. Occasionally, one of the other sensors picked it up instead, and the green glyphs appeared on another monitor, coordinates always on the very limit of sensor range as if the unknown energy signature was testing the outpost’s boundaries.

The presence warily circling the perimeter never breached the sensor ring. It never ventured past the alarm installations and set off any of the traps Decepticons usually left for unwelcome visitors. It never stayed still, coordinates always changing, but it never left for long. The glyphs disappeared but kept reappearing.

For the past couple of hours, it had danced in and out of that one particular sensor’s range. After a while, it stayed within range. The green glyphs on the screen jittered often as if to disappear again, but instead they stayed steady. The coordinates had shifted a few times, but for the better part of the last hour they had remained unchanged.

Overlord looked at them, distracted from his reading. It didn’t make much difference where exactly Vortex was, but the odd ducking in and out around that one sensor was curious nonetheless -- or perhaps not. That sector wasn’t close, but it did have direct line-of-sight. The ‘copter must be able to see the base, if only as a miniature in the horizon.

The triple-changer couldn’t see his errant guest, but he could see the reason behind Vortex’s bizarre advance-and-retreat actions. He knew why the Combaticon hadn’t moved for the last hour. It was simple psychological physics: two equal forces pulling in opposite directions on an object canceled each other out, rendering the object immobile.

Until one of the forces was altered, that was.

Overlord’s lips quirked minutely upwards.

He had followed Vortex’s progress across the surface ever since the helicopter had fled the compound. The sensor installations spotted across this planetoid’s surface were sparse and didn’t work more often than not, but Vortex had apparently been too caught up in panic to evade them at all. His headlong flight had favored speed over everything else. He’d made a quick straight line directly north. The line had gone on for several hours but paused when that route approached the base from the opposite direction. Sensors then began pinging online in a zig-zag slightly to the west, moving aimlessly around the hemisphere as Vortex attempted to find a direction that didn’t result in leading right back around to the base. 

It really was a tiny hunk of rock floating through space, however. Vortex could run all he wished; there was nowhere to go. The ‘copter couldn’t break even this planetoid’s thin atmosphere, either, trapping him here. 

Slow and inevitable, that realization had ground itself in. It was only possible to deny reality for so long. Vortex had eventually stopped running, because there was nowhere to run _to_.

The triple-changer’s optics narrowed as his EM field pulsed with anger and anticipation. The briefest impatience swept through him: a desire to simply go out, find the rotary mecha, and start prying up thin strips of protoform plating until Vortex was just a mass of writhing circuitry. The moment passed, and he took another sip from the glass in his hand. He could see why the situation could be upsetting, but really, this was a minor setback when he took the time to think about it instead of reacting. 

He had been quite convinced that the conditioning had been progressing perfectly. He’d assumed making use of the coercive aspects of the loyalty program would act as a deciding factor for the Combaticon’s teetering willpower. Slamming into the unchangeable nature of Overlord’s careful work should have been a catalyst for Vortex’s conscious mind. It should have broken any lingering spirit and started internalizing the training, but the officer hadn’t anticipated how well it would actually work. 

Although it clearly hadn’t in the end. Vortex had hidden his stubborn will under the collapse of all dignity. 

It had appeared to work, in any case. The final outburst of defiance had been expected and normal, the natural defense of a desperate mind sensing itself on the verge of absolute surrender. It happened with all mecha, eventually. Overlord had been looking forward to how it would manifest in this particular pet project. Some of his victims tried to bargain, some tried to appeal to his compassion, and some, like Vortex, tried to threaten and use bravado. He’d been somewhat disappointed that the ‘copter had gone that route. He’d been a bit curious of what someone like Vortex could bring to a bargaining attempt. 

Instead of bargaining or sweet-talk, there had been insults. Tsk. So unoriginal and poorly thought out! It was almost enough to make Overlord feel a twinge of sympathy that something so inadequate had been the notorious interrogator’s last act of defiance. The Combaticon’s bluster had been more clawing desperation than clear thought, easily put down. The taunting might have worked on an inferior mind, but Overlord didn’t do self-doubt. He wouldn’t make such a stupid mistake as to second-guess himself because of the flimsy words of a captive.

It had been strange, however, that Combaticon had been caught unaware by the nature of the conditioning. How in Primus’ name the mecha had forgotten to include the loyalty programming in his calculations, Overlord couldn’t say. That wasn’t the kind of fact that could be forgotten easily, especially by a professional who zeroed in on such flaws as part of his job. It was beyond-stupid negligence to leave such a weakness without a perpetual high-priority tag. He could understand the self-protection involved in not wanting to think about such a gaping, inbuilt, unsolvable problem, but Vortex had to have taken into account the destructive effects it could have. Ignoring it was idiocy.

The massive officer wasn’t about to argue with the Combaticon’s lack of foresight. He’d caught the pang of undiluted shock in Vortex’s field when the information slotted into place, making it totally clear that the conditioning wasn’t going anywhere, and hadn’t _that_ been hilarious? Then, exploiting the thought-repression parts of the loyalty programming had produced the most delightful fear as the proud ‘copter utterly lost control to code and program.

It’d been just lovely. Ah, if only that moment of breakage could be bottled like a fine vintage of high grade. Overlord would be considered a master decanter, but he’d horde every last drop to savor himself. 

After the shrieking petered out under mechanical failure, Overlord had purposefully left the smaller Decepticon in a changed environment. Nothing important, really, but the darkness and opened door made the mecha trapped inside the plastic wrap feel even more abandoned. The isolation ensured he’d have nothing but his thoughts to look at and nothing to do but wait and ponder his situation. Overlord did like his projects to break themselves. Despite how he enjoyed physically and mentally devastating mecha, it was always much more effective when they did the work for him. 

Ramming into the loyalty software’s wall of repression and entrapment had served quite well in that regard. It’d driven the point home. By the time he had decided to return to the room, Overlord had been greeted by the most abject of electromagnetic signatures. Vortex’s visor had fastened on him with all the desperate neediness of before, and twice the earnest submission. The little ‘copter had strained toward him, whimpering softly in pleading, but Vortex hadn’t dared speak. Oh no, that kind of disobedience was a thing of the past. Speaking out of turn and moving without permission had become anathema, and Overlord’s pet project had embodied abject need to _obey_. The desire to burst into ugly, raw begging to be allowed to do so had been all but visible. 

His gratitude had been palpable upon being granted permission to speak, as well. Overlord had absorbed that trembling wave of relief and smiled slightly at a job well done. 

Vortex hadn’t wasted his time with the familiar outpouring of terrified pleading. This time, it’d been one very carefully constructed plea. It’d been more of a recitation than anything, done under the pressure of Overlord’s critical optics and crushing terror. It had been uttered in the tiniest of shamed whispers. Vortex had verbally melted to the floor. He’d oozed to Overlord’s feet and groveled there in a sniveling pile of words debasing itself in every possible way. It’d been so humiliating the ‘copter had actually shut down his visor in order to continue at some points.

Overlord had been slightly amused to hear such elaboration in the brink of a panic-glitch. Even stifled by the weight of active statis protocols, Vortex’s systems had been overheated by fear. Every moving part had been twitching against the plastic as fight-or-flight instinct screamed inside Vortex’s body. That wasn’t an option, and the ‘copter had taken the only available option left to him: submission. The piteous begging had grated the Combaticon’s scoured pride down to nothing, but the wordy recitation wasn’t surprising considering Vortex’s vast memory bank of past victims.

The triple-changer had let the words continue without giving the pathetic little mecha any hint of whether they were pleasing or not. They were certainly very enjoyable, but the simplest pleasures were generally the most rewarding, and watching the ‘copter flounder had been exactly that. Denying Vortex any reaction to play off of had made the recitation hitch and stutter along as fear shook the ‘copter more and more. He’d waited and let the terror build, and eventually the words had run out.

It had taken a while. The most interesting -- or perhaps, in hindsight, the most cunning -- part of the entire performance had come in the last phrase. The finale, as it were. After the pleading and self-abasement had finished, Vortex had swallowed hard and stared up at him in frantic hope for some faint sign of approval, some confirmation that he’d done the right thing, that he’d done what Overlord wished.

Overlord had regarded him distantly, supremely unimpressed, and the Combaticon had...wilted, in a way. It had been impossible for him to move much, but still the little Decepticon had slumped.

He’d murmured, “I understand, sir,” and gone silent, visor dull and flickering.

It had come with such a sense of desperation and acceptance, Overlord couldn’t help but smile fondly. Vortex had given up, and he did so like to see that in his projects. Such a remarkable job he had done. It was satisfying to see his handwork at its purest, and the Combaticon was handily gift-wrapped to send to Shockwave as proof of Overlord’s abilities. The temptation to do precisely that had almost swayed him, in fact.

Vortex had disguised his resistance extremely well. If Overlord didn’t prefer doing the dirty work himself, the ‘copter would be free to skitter out from under Shockwave’s control right now. Let loose on Cybertron, it would have been a nuisance to track him down again.

But Overlord did prefer molding his projects himself, and he hadn’t shipped the ‘copter back to Cybertron. He’d prodded the plastic-wrapped mecha in front of him as if testing him for freshness and hummed thoughtfully to himself.

Hope had glimmered under the misery. The smallest sliver of interest from Overlord had been a holy blessing from Primus for Vortex.

Turning his back on the ‘copter had invoked the saddest whimper of despair a vocalizer was probably capable of producing. Overlord had glanced back, making certain the point had been made: attention equaled a precious gift. One he did not have to give.

It had seemed Vortex understood that. He’d bent beautifully under the training when it resumed. He’d greedily grasped after every speck of time Overlord allowed him, striving to demonstrate that he was learning and was therefore deserving of being permitted to eventually graduate back into a Decepticon soldier instead of remaining in the status of a malfunctioning toy.

Two weeks of perfectly appropriate behavior had followed that day. The Combaticon had followed orders unerringly, as before, but the taint of rebellion had evaporated from him. Overlord had tested his pet project’s resolve and left him session after session without a single reward, but Vortex had learned. Instead of howling pleas or demands, the mecha had keened and squirmed. At most, he’d respectfully _asked_ what more he could do to earn Overlord’s favor, not even daring to directly plead for the bubble noise his gestalt coding craved. And, when Overlord coldly denied him it, ‘copter had meekly accepted that decision. Overlord’s whim had become the final word.

After that, when the officer had decided enough time had passed to resume the usual reward program, he given the Combaticon his useless little plastic air pocket noise, and Vortex’s EM field had spangled fireworks of gratitude across a pleasure-filled backdrop. Structure-level addiction had left the smaller Decepticon limp and moaning quietly, unable to hide how a simple bubble pop left him shuddering with intense reaction. When Overlord returned for the next session, Vortex’s very circuitry had been _happy_ to obey as a subordinate should.

Those unspoken actions had been much more telling than all the repetitive hours of meaningless requests being obeyed without question. Overlord had seen the resignation in that mindless obedience, which was what he had been patiently grooming since the first day the little scrapheap had arrived. It hadn’t been perfect obedience, not yet, but it’d been well on its way there.

Or so he’d thought.

Overlord huffed in annoyance, one gigantic hand tightening on the armrest of his chair. He cycled air and looked over his own irritation with an analytical optic.

It was the failure to see the trick that bothered him. He _knew_ his way around the subtle language of sparks. He had trained himself through eons, far beyond mere academic knowledge, to be able to judge the difference between physical and mental breakage. He could discern what his sensors were feeding him on a level mnemosurgeons and medics envied. He had learned long ago to recognize the moment when a mind finally knelt alongside its frame.

He had been sure Vortex had reached that point. It was _annoying_ to have been proven wrong. From that day confronting the Combaticon, it should have been just a matter of polishing the final work, sanding down the ragged edges until the project was perfect and he could add it to his prized collection of successes. He considered his completed projects to be works of art. Vortex’s refurbishment into a well-trained Decepticon soldier would have been an excellent addition to his portfolio of mental manipulation.

Overlord had miscalculated. That, or the Combaticon had an unusually predisposition for acting. Either way, the triple-changer had moved the conditioning on to the next stage too early, and now a significant portion of his efforts had been undone.

The hulking officer glanced up from his reading to regard the blinking green line of glyphs thoughtfully. They blinked on the screen until Vortex settled down again. Same coordinates as before. Interesting.

Perhaps his efforts hadn’t been wasted after all. It wouldn’t be the first time that Overlord had turned a mecha’s attempt to escape into a round-about descent into the Pit.

Overlord knew he and Vortex had a number of points in common. The politics of the project had, of course, intrigued him, but it was the subject’s similarities that had made this project particularly appealing. That, and the inherent difficulty in puzzling out how to rattle an amoral masochist.

However, their similarities were offset by their differences. Overlord was well aware of where their vocations differed, too.

He had investigated his subject thoroughly before accepting the assignment, and he’d discovered that Vortex had the sort of skill that came not only from practice but also a natural talent for inflicting pain. The ‘copter had experience using every tools at his disposal -- and he was capable of turning _anything_ into a tool -- and he knew how and when to use them to most effect. He was manipulative enough to twist mecha around until they believed he was in the right, cunning enough to escape mostly unscathed when things went wrong, and had enough wits to survive when he couldn’t turn situations to his advantage. Those were all handy attributes to have in times of war, so he had found an area where his talents could be used. It’d been a natural fit to become an interrogator, Overlord felt. Searching and extracting vital information from a reluctant subject’s mind was a delicate craft. Vortex had taken his natural skillset and honed it until he became a true craftsman, a profession in inflicting the right amount of suffering until questions were truthfully answered.

That was a craft Overlord understood. He had more than dabbled in it himself, but Overlord? He was an artist. He took joy in witnessing what pain others dealt, but his true pleasure came from creating it himself. It wasn’t his profession; it was his calling. Vortex used duty as an excuse to indulge in sadism, but there had never been a purpose to Overlord’s actions other than the beauty of misery itself. 

That wasn’t to say there weren’t side benefits, but where Vortex used his lust for pain as a means to an end -- the end being interrogation -- the sadism was the end for Overlord. It was the overarching purpose. If there was an eventual gain to be obtained through it, all the better, but no reason for it was stronger than the pleasure it brought to its creator.

Few mecha understood just how wonderfully intuitive and open to creative experimentation causing torment was, but it was a difficult topic to discuss. It tended to be a very subjective topic. Overlord couldn’t be bothered to explain this to those who didn’t have the sensibilities to appreciate it. The finer points of spinning agony out of various means and methods inspired more horror than academic interest, and experimentation often destroyed those rare mecha who shared Overlord’s interests. 

Vortex had been wonderfully intriguing raw material, a crossover between peer and subject, able to give live feedback if only in the form of futile protest. A sado-masochist was a new medium to be conquered for Overlord, an instrument in his hands for the first time, ready to be used to produce whatever Overlord wanted.

But Vortex had managed to slip through his fingers. He’d _fought back_. The insolent ‘copter had somehow managed to mar what would have otherwise been a perfect accomplishment. That irritated Overlord. Vortex had technically obeyed every order, but he’d deliberately sought a way to evade the triple-changer’s directives. Unlike a crystal garden that happened to grow an off-color vein, the Combaticon had _chosen_ to be flawed. 

For that he would be punished. The coordinates on the security monitor danced nervously but settled back to where they’d started. It was as if Overlord’s wandering subject wanted to leave but somehow couldn’t manage. As if something were holding him tethered to visual range of the outpost.

Vortex had to know what return would mean. He could not possibly want to submit himself to Overlord again if he had enough spirit left unbroken to manage an escape. Yet he didn’t flee further, and that told the officer the conditioning had taken after all. 

No, Overlord’s time and effort had not been wasted. In fact, if the big officer thought about it, this was really just a vacation within a vacation. It was time free of all responsibilities as Vortex took over his own torture. Overlord could just relax until the ‘copter delivered himself, properly broken at last.

Overlord knew what had to be done. He wasn’t arrogant enough to assume his method was infallible. He’d drawn out the torment, enjoying himself instead of closing the noose around the troublesome helicopter’s rotor hub, and Vortex had taken advantage of the slack to slip the knot. Overlord would have to make certain that was no longer an option. It would require starting the process from the earliest stages and waste valuable time in reinforcing already-taught behavior, but that was a necessary evil. At least this time around, Vortex would start out with a clear picture of what his chances of dodging the process were.

That was to say: none. Because even the Combaticon’s current freedom wasn’t really. It was a temporary reprieve, and it had come to an end, if the jittery coordinates on the screen were anything to go by.

The annoyed part of Overlord which had wanted to go out there and gut the unruly imbecile contemplated his revised thoughts on the situation and stood back to watch the show. There might have even been a self-satisfied purr from his power plant.

When the coordinates on the screen stabilized this time, one of the numbers had gone up by one. It seemed that the two psychological forces pulling in opposite directions were no longer equal. The object held between them couldn’t remain immobile, now.

Yes, this incident had wasted _some_ of his time and effort. Vortex had dared to smudge what would have otherwise been a spotless project record. Yet it hadn’t negated the progress made. Vortex’s temporary escape had merely set the project back and taken another route to the initial goal. The whole situation would still produce one Decepticon soldier, ready for service. 

Overlord would just extend the process now that his offended pride was roused. Vortex had been a peer and a piece of artwork before, but this had abruptly become _personal_.

He rose from his chair to refresh his glass. His optics studied the line of glyphs for a moment, but then he returned to reading comfortably. Vortex could fidget out there all he liked, looking for a way off this rock. There was no escape. What Vortex was trying to get away from was inside him, chewing on his mind, and eventually the Combaticon would succumb to it.

Chasing his errant victim down was unnecessary. Not when only Overlord’s hands could supply what Vortex needed.  
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	15. Chapter 15

**0 0 Part Fifteen 0 0**

 

Vortex tried to initiate recharge manually for the third time to no avail. The command went nowhere, like clicking an exit button on a window repeatedly only to have it stay open anyway. He ran an internal diagnostic scan, which pinned the unresponsive idling of his processors to the excess of high priority tag-warnings filling his cache. Those had to be whittled down before the recharge command could go through. 

He wondered why it didn’t just say, _‘Too fragging keyed up to power down.’_

The diagnostic program politely instructed him to clear at least 50% of the stacked queue before attempting to retry. Clicking away only added further clutter to the list. 

The problem was that his processors weren’t dealing with the warnings. They couldn’t. The reason the warnings were high priority was because Vortex’s gestalt code was in total upset, and nothing -- _nothing_ \-- he had tried had soothed it even remotely. He actually considered himself rather fortunate that he hadn’t been able to break the lockdown on his weapons systems. There had been times the aching not-pain had carved his self-control down into skeletal fingers too weak to push the Gatling guns away from his own helm. His shaking arms had been holding them there, pulling the triggers over and over again as his head burrowed into the grubby rock of this horribly small planetoid and his support structure screeched in need for what he couldn’t give it. 

Initiating forced recharge had been his last-ditch attempt to prevent suicide. It hadn’t helped all that much.

Oh, it’d cleared his queue, but only after he’d made himself activate the loyalty software’s shutdown protocol. That had been a new low for him, making himself think of different ways to undermine Lord Megatron’s rule despite how dearly he wanted to be back under the tyrant’s heel. Wanting to defy Megatron wasn’t even a vague desire anymore, and it’d taken him an embarrassingly long time to stop wistfully daydreaming about going back to Earth and instead dredge up some hatred toward the Supreme Commander. The loyalty program had activated sluggishly the first time, at glacial speeds the second and third times. It’d gotten progressively harder to make himself think subversive thoughts when he _knew_ better. Seeing unstoppable punishment bearing down on him sucked like a black hole.

Shutting down the hard way wasn’t, obviously, easy. Doing it more than once had forced defragmenting and bought him time as his scrambled processors rebooted, but Primus spare his spark. He was only a Cybertronian. Masochist he might be, but there was only so much he could make his cringing body and mind do.

Especially when the payoff for the disorientation and punishing cold reboots was mere minutes of reprieve. He’d managed to make his body recharge, but it hadn’t exactly been restful. And while he’d been knocked out, the craving had sunk its teeth back into his CPU. He’d come back online to the same situation he’d desperately tried to flee.

A red strip of light flashed across the dark landscape as he turned his visor toward the outpost buildings. There wasn’t any point in trying to hide. He’d edged across the perimeter days ago, tucked in on himself in dread as he waited for Overlord to come out to claim him once he set off the intruder alerts. No alarm had sounded, however. The triple-changer hadn’t set foot outside the building, so far as Vortex could see. 

He had a fairly good view, so he was fairly sure he’d have seen Overlord leaving. Vortex was so close to the buildings now that he was literally in their shadow. He’d had to inch across the landing pad. He knew he was going toward his tormentor, and he knew the other Decepticon had to know he was out here. The distance didn’t matter at all, realistically. There wasn’t a single place in the whole ridiculously small planet that was far enough away. Nor close enough. 

He needed to go back. 

Frag his life.

The Combaticon looked at his hands and flexed them against each other, scraping the paint of his palms with his own fingers. It was a small, useless gesture. It was the first thing he’d done when he had gotten (stupid _stupid **stupid**_ ) free. It had felt strut-meltingly _good_ to be able to make a fist, in those first moments. Everything had, really. Overlord had unwrapped him down to his elbows that day, and Vortex’s body had immediately gone into a hyperactive state of feeling via intense anticipation. 

He’d been good. Even in the middle of a storm of wild urges, he’d been a good subordinate. Obedience to Overlord’s orders was law to his struggling spark. He’d done everything he’d been told, shrugging his shoulders and twitching his rotor hub on cue, and the fragger had been pleased enough by his behavior to leave him unwrapped. Vortex had been painfully aware that his circuitry had bled abject appreciation for that, but he’d shoved any hint of plotting out of his EM field. He’d been a good mecha, just a good soldier, and held out long enough to be sure Overlord had left him alone. 

But then...oh. Ohhh. It’d been everything he’d waited for and more. He’d _moved_. He’d ripped through the plastic eagerly, feeling air touch his sensation-starved frame in places isolated for who-knew-how-long, and he’d landed in a heap on the floor. The awesome, fantastic floor he’d been kept from for untold time on end. Praise holy Primus and all hail Lord Megatron for the floor! He’d been deliriously happy for the amazing floor.

That instant of bliss had been closely followed by acute panic as he realized half his joints and hydraulic hardware was locked up after the months of inactivity. He hadn’t even been able to bend over to manually work the lubricant back into his knee and ankle joints. It had taken dozens of hardware check-ups plus scooting over to force the bottoms against the nearest wall just to wiggle his feet. Mashing his fingers against the floor had been the only way to get his finger joints working enough to get a grip on the last of the plastic miring his hip joints. Dexterity had been a lost cause, not with every passing moment the moment that could herald Overlord’s return. All he’d cared about was getting some basic motor functions working.

As soon as he could get his legs to support his weight, Vortex had lunged out of the room. He’d half-crawled, shaky and unsteady but finally _getting away_. The wall had been his best friend as he’d stumbled through the outpost’s corridors, proximity scanners feverishly working, alert to the tiniest sign of Overlord. He’d been unable to be quiet, not with how clumsy his body was, so he’d gone for speed. 

At that moment, it had seemed so worth it. Even if he’d gotten caught at the next bend of the corridor, just being able to move had been incredible. That alone had been worth it. It had also been exhilarating to know he was, for the first slagging time, actively disrupting Overlord’s game. The fat-lipped drone-fragger had held the advantage since Day One, but Vortex had beaten the odds to laugh in his face. Well, laugh behind his back. From a distance. A very large distance, because like the Pit was Vortex dumb enough to say anything but _”Yessir, Overlord sir!”_ anywhere near the Decepticon officer.

That was how far he’d been beaten down, but yet he’d defied the conditioning. _Yes_. He _had_. He was incapable of disobeying a direct order, but the fragging idiot _hadn’t ordered him not to escape_. No direct orders meant that Vortex could tear out of the plastic and get away, rubbing that blatant error in Overlord’s face. Even if he’d been caught right outside the door, Vortex’s point had been made. That was the sweetest reward of them all.

\-- no, wait. Not ‘reward.’ No-go word, right there. That was the sweetest...thing. A nice thing. It felt nice. Yes. ‘Nice’ was a good substitute for the words that his cortex had long since tagged relating to -- stuff. Stuff he didn’t want to think about. Things he’d attempted not to obsess over by instead glorying in Overlord’s mistake.

That wasn’t working so well anymore. It never had, truthfully, but Vortex was a stubborn mecha. His mind could take more abuse than his frame, but eventually he’d reached his limit. Trying to avoid thinking about…stuff…had gotten him this far, and unfortunately, this far wasn’t far from Overlord. Whatever enjoyment and pride of accomplishment he’d gotten from the triple-changer’s mistake had long-since been leeched away. He clung to the memory anyway.

A part of the Combaticon’s mind he was trying to ignore advised him to relish the faded enjoyment now, because it was going to be a very long time before he had anything like it again. He could bleakly revel in his hollow victory while it crumbled to ash around him.

Another part of his mind he was trying _really fragging hard_ to ignore told him he didn’t deserve even that paltry echo of satisfaction. Of course, that was the part of him that had been saying he didn’t deserve free movement since the second he’d started ripping plastic. It was probably the same part that shoveled angry red words into his cache and infected his rotor hub with an insistent itch of desire. Flight was a privilege he most definitely didn’t deserve in the critical regard of that part of his mind, but anything that’d catapult him faster to Overlord’s feet got the go-ahead.

Those parts of his mind were the parts of his intelligence that had succumbed to his internal metal beast. They kept ganging up on him. They wanted him to go inside the outpost right this instant, _right now_.

They had wrestled him this far. Vortex was losing to the pounding ache driving him crazy. If he had something sharp enough, he wouldn’t hesitate to try and cut the persistent buzzing _need_ out of his body somehow.

Hurriedly, he knelt and rummaged in his foot, opening his altmode’s side hatch and sticking his hand in. It took a moment, and a tightening pressure in his chest released slightly when his fingers touched the flimsy plastic he sought. It made him feel small and shamed to have a torn piece of the bubblewrap stuck in his cockpit, but he retrieved it despite that. This was really not the time or place for a pretense of pride anymore. 

He didn’t even bother standing up again. Visor decidedly trained on the blocky buildings of the facility, Vortex balled the plastic up in one hand. That hand squeezed and turned the ragged sheet gently enough not to rupture the air pockets. He didn’t want them to burst. He just wanted...he wanted the teensy squeaks of plastic on the verge of popping. 

_Crick. Sqrch-squee. Crick-ree._

The little noises went straight to the shivering thing crouched inside his head like a dose of coolant dumped into a lava pit. The substructure creature who’d consumed Vortex’s logic hubs one resisting line at a time whined piteously, because the sound was not enough, not near enough. His hand kept scrunching the plastic, however. It was a sad lie all the sadder because he was telling it to himself, but the quiet crackling sound made the flaming hot _ache_ a bit better. By an impossibly tiny amount, but something was better than nothing. 

It wasn’t the sound itself, but the nauseating uptick of hope from hearing it. It only lasted a few seconds before it ceased working, but that was _still_ better than nothing. Because the sound came right before --

It remind him of when _he_ was about to --

It made him think about when he deserved --

It sounded like that moment of judgment as --

...yes. That. He didn’t have to think about it, he just had to -- to do what he had to do to keep himself sane. Right now, that was the limit of Vortex’s abilities. If he had to crinkle a scrap of plastic, then at least he had the plastic on hand. It was pathetic, weak, and so embarrassing not even a glitched-up Autobot would do it, but, well, so be it.

The Combaticon shoved the plastic back in his cockpit and stood. His knees shook slightly. Ignoring that, he walked towards a rusted-out defensive barricade to sit against it, facing away from the main buildings. He squirmed intently, rasping and bending his shivering rotor blades over the rusted holes until it made his interface hardware ping online and his vocalizer sputter a thin sound. Hurting himself this way was painful in that really delicious way he’d _missed_ , and --

\-- and it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough.

He hadn’t disobeyed a direct order. He hadn’t! That’d been his triumph over Overlord, but also the only way he’d hung onto his defiance this long. Overlord had never ordered him not to struggle free or leave the building, but frag. That rule-lawyering had only worked because he’d determinedly _not thought_ beyond the moment. It’d worked to gather sufficient willpower to rip the plastic. 

It hadn’t helped him beyond that. Eventually, he hadn’t been able to dodge the thoughts beating his mind into submission. He wasn’t stupid, and the addicted, tremblingly raw part of himself that _needed_ wasn’t either. It insisted he return because he _knew_ deep inside that he was disobeying. The order hadn’t been given, but the gestalt code beast didn’t need an order to know it should have overpowered him and done as expected.

To spite Overlord if nothing else, he’d saved up enough strength to fight back the raving junkie living in his body, but he hadn’t managed to get away. That meant he had to face the consequences of revealing that hidden willpower. He had to go back.

Program cradles and machine structure agreed, relieved, practically throwing themselves to the forefront of his mind in order to urge this action. Vortex himself cringed in the back of his cortex as if he could disappear there. He needed to go back, _had_ to, but he knew what was waiting for him. He knew, and so he dithered here. 

He couldn’t do it. Inside this outpost waited Overlord, and that made partially processed fuel roil in his tanks. Terror made his rotor hub unlock. He’d locked his rotor blades back into position for flight as soon as he’d gotten himself unwrapped, but now they slicked down in unconscious surrender. Overlord would be in there, in that place Vortex didn’t want to enter, and the triple-changer _knew_ what Vortex had done. Not just the escape, but the attempt to throw Overlord’s error back in the mecha’s face. 

Fear welled up his intake, thick and cold. _Frag._ Frag his life, and frag _him_. Sideways, with bubblewrap holding him immobile and a side of vengeance roasting him on a spit, just to really made him regret living. Regret his stupid idea, too, and -- and how in the Pit was he supposed to go back?!

The red visor was dark now. Vortex panted heavily through every wide open vent, wrapping his hands around his arms and gripping harder and harder until the metal started to dent under his fingers. He needed to go back. He couldn’t do it, but he _needed_ to. He had no choice. There was no uncertainty. He was going back.

Dodging reality wasn’t working anymore. He’d known since the third day after fleeing the outpost that return was inevitable. He couldn’t keep derailing trains of thought about popping noises or banging his helm against the ground forever, but he’d held the feeble hope for a few days more that he would be forced to return by some third party. He’d known he couldn’t win, but he’d tried to resist long enough that Overlord would come drag him back himself. It’d have been another measly point Vortex could have chalked up on his own puny scoreboard against Overlord’s crushing victory. 

When it became clear Overlord wasn’t going to stir himself to chase Vortex, the ‘copter had started hoping that he could last until his fuel ran out. He’d have gone into stasis-lock in the middle of nowhere, which would have been sort of horrible but at least would have happened the natural way instead of in a way that reminded him of box-like prisons. He’d nearly fallen over the energon storage room on his staggering run out of the outpost, however, and a cargo load of energon cubes lasted a lot longer than Vortex’s willpower apparently did. 

He still vaguely entertained the idea of opening a major fuel line, right here and now. Surely Overlord would come out to fetch his offline body? Bleeding out would be ghastly, but it didn’t even compare to the idea of walking back into that building. Vortex didn’t want to go back, but he wanted even less to take responsibility for his actions. He didn’t want this fretting, frantic worry about how he had to somehow re-enter Overlord’s presence. He prayed the triple-changer would open the door right this moment and command him to come inside, just so he wouldn’t have to make himself do it of his own initiative.

Just...he’d resisted enough to make a statement, if nothing else. If he’d only been able to fight it off long enough that the statement was definitive! He’d grasped after anything to delay for a while longer, trying to fall before something else, something other than this slagging servile desire to crawl back. Because if he did that, the only statement he’d managed to make was that Overlord had broken him.

That was the correct statement. The conditioning had worked. Dread filled his tanks to the brim, and aching _want_ overflowed them. Not need for the bubble and the precious sound, but -- oh, Primus. He’d found out the hard way that wasn’t what he wanted, not anymore. He had the bubbles, didn’t he? And hadn’t that just worked out fine and dandy for him? Frag no. What he wanted couldn’t be found out here. The looping cycle he’d tried to escape didn’t even need to be activated by Overlord. Vortex existed, and therefore the conditioning did, too. 

Therefore, he needed. He needed, and the need built up and up until he was a weapon and frail self-control away from permanently solving the problem. The only reprieve (it sure wasn’t a cure) was available inside the base he stood in the shadow of, and _rust his spark chamber_ , he needed it so _much_!

Vortex bent forward, forcing his hands away from where he’d been clawing at his helm in order to fumble inside his foot. Clumsy desperation tore the piece of plastic as he yanked it out of his cockpit. He didn’t care. He just wrinkled it, again and again. The metal savage in his body wasn’t soothed in the slightest. It howled a piercing, near-physical needle of _need-ache- **want**_ straight up his back struts to impale the last of his resistance.

A bubble burst, but he didn’t even notice the sound. It meant nothing. It didn’t work unless the plastic air pocket was under the pressure of _those_ fingers, and Vortex was judged by the level stare from _those_ optics and -- and --

The Decepticon stood up, shaking like tinfoil in a windstorm, and started walking at an uneven pace toward the main building.

He had thought it would be harder. Vortex had thought that he’d have to take every step as if an invisible hand of protesting pride would try to hold him back. He had been completely mistaken. There wasn’t enough ego left unburnt to put up anything resembling a fight.

A part of him -- a large, strong, thriving, and extremely relieved part of him -- was instead encouraging every second of his surrender. The training purred soft, approving static from his innermost code. This was good, it assured him. This was what he should be doing. His anxious, whimpering gestalt-links clung to that reassurance, and Vortex hated himself for latching onto the safety of the training again. 

But, oh. Oh yes. The conditioning stroked through his shivery internal spaces like a master’s touch on a pet who was finally doing right, and the majority of Vortex’s broken mind curled around the directives. Returning like this, humbled to the ground and ready to fling himself at Overlord’s feet? It was _good._ Resuming his proper place was the first step towards _making things right_. It would be horribly painful in a nonphysical way, but Vortex sickly found himself thinking he deserved that not-pain. Overlord would be angry, and justifiably so because Vortex had been _bad_ , but ultimately, compliance was the only way.

His steps steadied, strengthened by his lack of options, and if he was still shaking and panting, it had nothing to do with resistance. Only with fear. Not even really for what was going to happen to him. The fear sprang from the thought that nothing would. 

Because that would be just his luck, to break down and admit he had to crawl back to Overlord’s tender mercies only to be refused. How on Cybertron could he convince Overlord to take him back? He’d defied the triple-changer. He’d run away. He’d been a disobedient, insubordinate soldier. Why would Overlord give him even a chance to earn the pop-noise reward _ever again in his entire existence_ after this?

He didn’t know. Vortex asked himself why Overlord would agree to take him back, but the only possible answer he could think of was revenge. Except Overlord didn’t seem to _get_ angry. For all the ‘copter knew, this had all been part of the officer’s plan.

He turned the situation this and that way in his head, but there was no viable answer. He’d just have to -- to trust in Overlord’s mercy and...uh. Right. That sounded ludicrous even to the part of his mind that wanted to believe it. Overlord had a history of giving him exactly nothing, and this was probably just the opportunity the sadist had been patiently waiting for to make his life twice the Pit it had been before he ran away. There was no way to avoid it, so at least that made it not his choice? Maybe?

His dull visor cast a faint red light on the ground as he looked down at the dust before his feet. The atmosphere of this joke of a planetoid was thin enough that it didn’t really have weather. The wind hadn’t erased the tracks he’d left when he’d fled. He could follow them right back to where he belonged.

That’s exactly what he did, ending up in his own footprints outside the outpost’s entryway.

Vortex stood there shifting from foot to foot awkwardly, needy and pathetic, and it gradually dawned on him that he had no idea what to do. He’d kind of assumed that of course Overlord would be waiting by the door to suitably grind in how low the Combaticon had fallen. Probably by making humiliating _’tsk-tsk’_ noises at him again. Or just by holding a roll of the plastic bubble-blanket at the ready. 

Cold, gummy horror had congealed deep inside him at _that_ thought, because all he could imagine was being forced to wrap himself up again while Overlord stood by and watched him. The officer wouldn’t have even had to say anything. Vortex would have taken one look at the plastic and begun putting on the first layer of the familiar prison without question. That would have been horrid enough, but his spark cowered in its chamber from shame at the idea of being awake and aware, yet terribly cooperative as he offered his limbs one by one to the triple-changer for individual wrapping. 

He’d have preferred being conscious as he was rolled into the plastic bubble-prison to...this. He’d have preferred anything to this. There was no Overlord, and no sign _of_ Overlord. It was just...a door. It was a fairly standard door, reinforced and thick for defensive purposes. It was the sort that protected as much against sound as airstrikes. Even if he’d had his weaponry online, it’d have taken Vortex a decent amount of time to bust through this thing.

Vortex stood before it dumbstruck. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He approached the lock and pawed at it a couple of times, but of course that didn’t work. The lockbox itself stayed stubbornly closed, denying him access to even try cracking the access code or imitate Overlord’s palm signature or anything. It wouldn’t open. Thus, the door didn’t open.

He gave the door itself a tentative knock, but the thing was thick. He doubted any sound got through the buffer. When he finally figured out where the security camera was located, the thing looked as dead as the rest of the facility. That didn’t stop him from standing underneath it, looking up with all the forlorn helplessness of a cyberpup locked outside during an acid rain storm.

What..? How..? This made no _sense_. The ‘copter had absolutely no idea what to do now. He had given up. He was here. He was supposed to grovel his way into being permitted under the officer’s command again. He was supposed to beg to be taken back. Overlord would be pissed or maybe amused, and Vortex had been expecting cruel forced restart upon forced restart, and --

\-- and not this. Not a blank door and silence.

He couldn’t help himself. Vortex’s wretched scraps of higher consciousness turned to his internal trained code-creature, appealing desperately to its wisdom, and it in turn appealed to the source of safety: the conditioning. Except that the conditioning had nothing to say about this situation. His program cradles twisted around his software in uncertainty, and his mind flinched inside the upset. All he wanted was orders to follow, but the outpost was silent.

Vortex’s fingers scraped against his palms as his hands closed into shaking fists. It didn’t feel good. It felt the opposite of good. He had what he’d wanted, now didn’t he? How was that working out for him, huh? 

With a muted whimper, the Combaticon flattened his hands against the wall under the defunct security camera and stared up at it. “Let me in.” Was that his voice? It sounded like he’d been eating gravel and chasing it with lighter fluid. “Overlord sir, please. Don’t leave me out here.”

The silence ate everything: sound, safety, sanity. It was unbearable. It coated the entire blasted planetoid. It covered his proximity sensors, and it came from the buildings around him. Every single one looked _empty_.

They probably were. After all, what officer stuck around when there was no one left to command?

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	16. Chapter 16

**0 0 Part Sixteen 0 0**

 

One of the screens in the room lit dimly, scrolling a new line of green glyphs. The sensors had registered motion from the miserable lump they were monitoring outside. The glyphs danced. After a while, a pre-programmed threshold was reached, and the security feed tripped an alert. It _bleep_ ed. When it was left unanswered for a couple of minutes, it did it again. Then again. And again.

The persistent noise became annoying enough that the huge mecha sprawled on the berth eventually stirred. An empty cube was pitched at the irritating sound. An optic lazily onlined, rising from recharge when the sound didn’t stop.

After a long night of comparing campaigns with Sixshot via long-range communications, Overlord didn’t particularly want to wake up. Somewhere around the time they’d agreed on ‘take a shot for every city eradicated,’ it’d become a drunk-off. Drunk-offs between multi-changers were things of legend, mostly of the variety to make supply sergeants afraid, very afraid. Overlord might have gotten a wee bit wasted last night.

Good thing Shockwave was footing the bill on this little vacation.

So, slightly hungover and wishing he were still overcharged, Overlord rolled his head toward the screen.

Then he sat up, delight pushing the small aches away. _Oh_. It seemed his wayward rotary frame had finally decided to crawl out from whatever rock it’d been wedged under. Poor little thing probably thought things would get better here. Aw, how cute.

Overlord arched his back in a slow-motion stretch to unkink stiffened cables one link at a time. They crackle-popped. “Ahhh. Getting too old for slow mornings,” he mused out loud as he rolled his shoulders to loosen them, too. The best way to wake up from being slag-faced overcharged was with an assault. There was nothing like taking out a hangover on several dozen enemies. 

His joints protested all this activity -- had Sixshot won? Passing out would explain the limp sprawl he’d recharged in. Fragging six-changers and their high energon consumption -- but he ignored their whining in order to heave himself upright. It might not be an Autobot attack, but proximity alerts were the best alarm clocks. They meant something was happening.

He walked over to the security monitor to stop the persistent pings because they were bothering his over-sensitive audios, however. A few taps on the console brought him the video feed from the base’s front gate. There was his wayward guest. 

The triple-changer creaked a bit as he folded into the chair, joints protesting, but he chuckled at the sight of his stray ‘copter. The Combaticon’s uneven gait took him the long way around to the base door, one faltering step at a time. Since the hidden camera was positioned quite high and at an angle, Overlord couldn’t see the other Decepticon clearly once he reached the door itself, but even from the lousy angle he got a rather entertaining show. 

There was fiddling with the lockbox. He’d left the little mecha a surprise _there_ , but Vortex gave up on it after a few pokes. The tentative knock provoked a laugh. Did the fool truly believe Overlord would answer a _knock_? Yes, he’d been sitting there inside the security room for weeks just waiting for Vortex to return. A polite knock would summon him like Unicron from the Pit. 

“Yes?” he’d say. “Did you need something?”

He had to admit that Vortex’s face, mask and visor and all, would have been priceless. And opening the door just to close it in the mecha’s face had its appeal. 

Well, frag. Maybe Overlord should have done that, after all.

Vortex’s efforts eventually devolved to pounding on and thrashing at the closed door. The triple-changer snorted laughter. It was a base door. It would take a hacker or a demolitions expert to get through it. One helicopter throwing a tantrum wasn’t going to do more than dent the thing.

Overlord was a patient mech. True cruelty often took time to develop, after all. His punctilious nature often demanded long periods of thoughtful consideration before executing concrete actions, and he was used to observing the development of events carefully until they reached the appropriate time to intervene. His preference was for long term planning. 

That didn’t mean he didn’t eventually find the waiting periods tedious. Watching the ‘copter scrabble at the door provided an appreciated break to the boredom. It was amusing, too. His sniggering threatened to become an outright laugh when the rotary mecha on the screens started walking around the base looking for other ways in. Did the little Combaticon want in? Did he? D’aww. Now, wasn’t that just sweet? He just wanted back into the fold. 

A few tapped commands switched other monitors on, and Overlord settled down for some quality entertainment. The cameras left out in sight looked defunct, but he’d hidden a few new ones in and around the outpost. They showed him Vortex’s route around the main building. The ‘copter spent quite some time inspecting the upper levels for access points, craning his neck and trying to find an entryway. He even took to the air to inspect every single ledge and panel. Blast shutters were kicked at, and he picked frantically at the edges of tiny sealed windows he couldn’t fit an arm through. 

That almost sent the watching triple-changer into a fit of laughter. The wait had been tedious, but there was something to be said for this unplanned recess in the program. Watching the ‘copter freely act on his desperation was far more entertaining than just letting him squirm inside the plastic roll. He was so _persistent_. The little idiot likely thought he could find some way to mitigate his suffering instead of resigning himself to defeat.

Still chuckling and shaking his head at the Combaticon’s antics, the hulking Decepticon officer went to pour himself a new cube from the dispenser. Best way to lube a hangover was a few sips of the cause, hmm? He moved the more comfortable chair he’d been using for reading closer to the screens before he settled in to enjoy the show. 

The triple-changer vaguely mourned his decision not to install audio channels on the surveillance network. He hadn’t deemed it necessary at the time of installation, and that hadn’t really changed, but it’d have been nice at the moment. He could see the tiny movements of Vortex’s mask, and the dimming and brightening of the red visor. There was some talking going on out there, and he’d have liked to hear what Vortex thought vital enough to say aloud. A litany of curses? An inspirational mantra? Constant denial of reality, or a prayer for a quick death? It was probably hilarious, whatever it was, and Overlord was missing it all. Alas, he couldn’t anticipate every single detail.

After well over two hours of thorough inspection, the rotary was apparently convinced of his inability to enter the main building and left, shuffling with limp rotors and slumped shoulders towards the smaller buildings of the compound. 

Overlord considered going back into recharge at this point, given that the other buildings were completely empty. There was really nothing for the rotary frame to do other than poke at walls and doors some more. That had been amusing for the past little while, but it wasn’t anything he wanted to watch for hours on end. 

He was stretching again, ready to get up, when he saw the smaller mecha stiffen. Suddenly, the impudent little fragger went from wandering at a slow walk to quickening his steps in a straight line. Overlord tilted his head and lowered his arms out of the stretch while trying to figure out what had happened. He didn’t get it until he realized the Combaticon was briskly approaching a tiny object on the floor. Something about that object had Vortex all kinds of giddily excited, he could tell. 

He couldn’t quite make it out at first. On the monitor it was just a dark dot in the rough, dusty floor inside one of the outbuildings. Vortex’s visor was glued to it as if it held salvation, however, and his steps zeroed in fast. 

Fascinated like a biologist studying a particularly quirky microbe, Overlord watched the Combaticon stop in front of the dot, walk around it a bit, and then stoop to pick it up. From the way the glitch’s rotor blades were fanning open, this thing had hit Vortex with a shot of hope more potent than the high grade Overlord had binged on last night. What the frag could it be?

Some fiddling with camera angles and the zoom function revealed the object in the helicopter’s hands to be a small, flat cylinder of some kind. Overlord frowned and called up an ordnance catalogue, guessing it was ammunition of some form, but when he zoomed in looking for markers, a brand logo came up instead. He recognized it, although it puzzled him further. Why had Vortex pounced upon a used tin of wax?

The puzzled frown turned into an amused _’Oooh’_ of realization after a moment watching Vortex. The tiny visor on the screen turned this and that way, searching. The Combaticon cradled the can to his chest distractedly as he searched.

This was just precious.

Overlord leaned back in his seat and laughed long and loud. The desperate mecha on the monitors was now jogging around the base again, this time examining the outer nooks for one thing in particular. When he didn’t find it, he headed toward the smaller buildings, running in and out of each with the tin still firmly grasped in both hands.

“Heh. Heh heh. That one,” chortled the triple-changer to himself. He pointed at one of the furthest buildings to the right with his half-empty energon cube. “Go on, now. There you go. Just a few more buildings to scour, and I’m sure you’ll figure it out on your own.”

Red optics narrowed with mirth tracked the Combaticon investigating the base. While Vortex was busy prying open rusty-hinged closets in the wrong building, Overlord hastily double-checked that the surveillance equipment was recording everything properly. The gaps between cameras meant he was missing a lot of what was happening, but it would still be wonderfully entertaining to show this to the rotary mecha once Vortex was back to his senses. That EM field would positively sizzle with embarrassment!

Because that? That right there? That was a mech so desperate to follow orders -- _any_ orders -- that finding a piece of litter had sent him on a frantic quest for a trash can. This was a new low, a low only successful conditioning could have brought about, and Overlord intended to rub the foolish Combaticon’s face in that fact.

Eventually Vortex went into the warehouse that housed the waste disposal system. It wasn’t actually functioning anymore, but the cans meant to store rubbish until disposal were still there. A few minutes later, the ‘copter came out with his rotors perked up visibly. He looked almost proud of himself.

"Oh, you do so dearly wish I was there to witness you being a soldier following base disposal regulations, don't you," Overlord murmured as he tapped the screen. “You want to follow orders so badly.”

This was such a mood lifter. The laughter at Vortex’s expense left Overlord feeling magnanimous. Yes, he felt like helping the little idiot. Vortex was clearly happy to be of use, and Overlord _was_ a caring officer, after all.

The triple-changer browsed the monitors showing the hangars and storage facilities Vortex hadn’t investigated yet. The ‘copter was still strutting like a wirebird who’d just bent his tailfeathers into plumage displays for mating season. Overlord had to paused for a fit of laughter at the show. After that passed, he selected the building least likely to be looked into right away and strolled out of the room to retrieve a drone.

He himself would certainly not pass unnoticed if he went outside the main building. While it would certainly be amusing to do this himself without even acknowledging Vortex’s inevitable -- and likely funny as the Pit -- reaction, he would _most_ certainly not bother to do this in person. He had a six-changer to call up and demand details of concerning last night. A small drone would do just as well, and it could drop into the underground network of the base without worrying about what the partially collapsed tunnel system would do to its finish. Plus, it wouldn’t be noticed by the Combaticon’s scanners. All the better to mess with Vortex’s mind.

He set the robot off to deliver its first round of cargo and returned to watching the screens, waiting for Vortex to get around to the chosen warehouse. Overlord wondered, smirking to himself, what the ‘copter would do when he found the building full of empty bubblewrap boxes. Would he obsessively open every single box in a search for the all-important plastic, or freeze up at the reminder?

The sadist found his opinion divided between the Combaticon’s eventual action. He rather liked the thought of Vortex obsessively stacking the boxes in rows, trying to restructure the soft organic cardboard into perfect shapes again, or perhaps dis-assembling them and careful folding the boxes flat for storage. If that was the case, Overlord would have to send the drone back to mess up everything, just to see what Vortex did. Maybe he’d stage an ‘inspection’ of the warehouse before the ‘copter could tidy it again. Failure to keep the base neatened would be a nice finishing touch on the list of offenses the Combaticon had already earned.

On the other hand, Vortex could decide to bring the boxes to share the fate of the empty wax tin. Overlord hoped Vortex tried to trash them. The mecha would probably have a nervous breakdown when he realized the litter containers were too small to fit them all in. And how would the ‘copter fix the waste disposal system with no tools and no power? There was simply no way Vortex could win.

But, oh. Oh, the regretful, naughty, thoroughly trapped mecha was going to try. Overlord settled back in his chair to watch the ‘copter, and he was definitely saving this footage for future viewing.  
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	17. Chapter 17

**0 0 Part Seventeen 0 0**

 

Well, here he was again. That had been an epic tour of futility. Overlord hadn’t come out to confront him, and the door hadn’t magically unlocked while the ‘copter been meandering about pathetically. He hadn’t found a weak point in the building’s walls, either.

Every other building had been unsecured but empty. Mostly empty, anyway. Empty of anything of real worth, although frag him sideways if he didn’t have the fight off the urge to go back and wipe down the walls and floors and tidy the boxes again and --

Vortex pressed his facemask to the door, shutting his visor off as he stuffed the whimpering desperation down under his spark to deal with later. If this door really was sealed shut, then yes, he’d go be a menial drone like the lowliest grunt soldier on scutwork duty for misconduct. Anything to give the conditioning shredding his mind a drop of obedience to feed on. He hoped that would pacify it, even if for just a brief time. But that was his last ditch measure to take only if the door was sealed. 

It had to open. There had to be someone -- one particular mecha, huge and intimidating and oh, frag him, his sensor network gave a little shimmy at the very thought of whom it yearned for -- inside, still. Extending all his scanning hardware as far as it could go, the ‘copter strained to detect something past the door. A tiny vibration, or a sound, or something. The hum of machinery, the clang of drones moving far off in the building, _anything for frag’s sake!_

Silence.

The tips of rotor blades dug into the ground when the Combaticon’s frame slumped forward, arms and mask dragging down the the pitted metal of the door. Knees met dirt. Hands curled into claws against the metal.

He had been abandoned. Overlord had left him here to rust. He must have left at some point. Maybe Vortex had been too far away to detect the shuttle that picked him up, or maybe his flight altmode was capable of breaking atmosphere and the slagging triple-changer hadn’t needed additional help to leave him alone on this stupid pebble of rock to suffer. 

Alone until he deactivated, and he was queasily aware of how long that would take. Time could stretch on forever when mecha had no way to stop the torment. His code would _ache_ until the last fumes of fuel were consumed. There would be no more orders he could follow, no more fingers to make the beautiful bubble-burst sound when he was properly obedient, no way he could possibly be anything but an unsatisfactory reject from the Decepticon ranks. That was what he was. He was a deserter. He’d run from his officer. Vortex deserved every ripping pull taking his processors apart, because he’d deserted. Agonized insanity until death was a fitting punishment for that crime.

Primus spare him from his warped deep code, but he’d enlist under his own power at this point. Get him back to Cybertron, and he’d change his identity just to re-enlist as a footsoldier. He’d be one of the cannon-fodder grunts put on the front lines to die, because at least their officers occasionally approved their efforts. Right now he’d take anything, even that.

It wouldn’t be Overlord. It wouldn’t be the other Combaticons. He’d take it anyway. Vortex’s cortex squirmed in shame at the very thought of trying to return to Earth without Overlord’s stamp of approval. He could just imagine what Lord Megatron would think of _that_. Banishment to an asteroid had inspired rage before, but now he was exiled here and terrified of the solitude he faced. Although maybe he’d get lucky? If he went directly to Lord Megatron and swore service with a large portion of begging pardon for past poor behavior on the side, maybe he’d be allowed to remain at the Supreme Commander’s sufferance. He’d probably be demoted to bailing out the lower decks of the underwater base permanently, but that would still be under orders.

The code creature pacing back and forth in his mind whined eager agreement to that idea. He wouldn’t be isolated, and surely he’d have a chance to prove his worth again! Disappointing subordinates hoped for that small chance to demonstrate how they’d improved. Vortex certainly did. He had learned, he really had, and being demoted to bail-bucket duty would still be…not this. Not alone.

Alone to suffer. He’d thought it was bad before? These past few weeks, he’d attempted to stay away from Overlord out of fear and pride. Now Overlord wasn’t here, and where did that leave him? There was no officer to issue orders. No officer to give him the precious bubble _pop_. His code was already fritzing, processors spitting random numbers, and his logic hubs didn’t have a clue where to start. There was nowhere to _go_ , so how could he begin in the first place? 

How long until he froze up, glitching too severely to prevent processor errors? How long until he’d been too crazed to stop himself from finding something sharp to open a major fuel line? He already had dents in his helm from attempting to bash the gnawing craving out. It was only going to get _worse_.

His thoughts spiraled down into increasingly hellish scenarios of abandonment until he realized the sun had set. How long had he been crouched against the door? With all his gauges and chronometer offline, he had no idea how much time had passed. Daytime went quickly on this accursed tiny planetoid. The metal he leaned against was warm to the touch where he’d been venting irregularly on it. The rest was night-cold already. He resisted the urge to huddle against the warm spot in desperate pretense that it was another Cybertronian. His gestalt-links were _that_ needy.

Vortex stood up and tried to access the lock again, to no avail. He needed to get inside. Even if -- and his vocalizer clicked at the thought -- Overlord was gone, it was still better than waiting outside. Maybe Overlord hadn’t taken the drones with him? The ‘copter was broken enough that drones were better than no company. If they were active, he’d do what they did and pretend they were all acting under orders instead of preprogrammed to perform their tasks. It might help. A little. 

Perhaps some equipment had been left behind? Everything Vortex had seen so far was inactive or broken, but if he could get a single piece of communication equipment back online...

The Combaticon figured he might as well attempt hacking the lock. A lot of his invasive components were offline between the weapons system and time-related equipment lockdowns, but he might be able to use a regular cable hook-up to bypass the keys. He still technically had his official interrogator passcodes and work-arounds, although he didn’t have any specific permits for this base. Well, unless Overlord had already banned him from anything resembling authority in the Decepticon ranks, which was entirely likely and not something Vortex could bear thinking about right now. 

Optimism! He should give it a try, because Primus please he couldn’t deal with more crushing, miserable despair. For a change, perhaps he’d have luck with the --

Huh. Now that was odd.

His fingers had been poking at the slim base of the lockbox’s access panel where the external ports usually were installed, but there was none there. He gave it a curious look and swept his fingers under the bottom of the box. Nothing met his search. Strange. There weren’t ports anywhere around the lockbox. How the frag was the lock console accessed if the lockbox itself didn’t open?

Vortex frowned behind his mask and begun patting the panels down. His fingers picked at the seams around the access panel until he found a catch on the top corner. The label had erased long ago, but a switch was barely visible there when he brought up a magnifying lens in his visor. A manual catch? Interesting. He hadn’t seen those since the war began and Autobots began breaking into bases. He pressed it and the access panel over the lock slid aside, revealing a narrow, dusty screen. There was a small microphone set underneath it.

The screen read, _[Password protected. Access locked.]_

“What the -- ?” Bewildered but more than a little fascinated, Vortex redirected his helm vents to blow some dust off the microphone. Voice recognition? This lock was _archaic_. He hadn’t seen this model in ages! How old was this base? They had stopped making these back when --

_[User recognized. Enter access password.]_

What? What did that even mean? How could he be a user unless...oh. Oh, wait.

He eyed the screen suspiciously. He couldn’t be a user unless someone had manually added him to the lock keys. With as old as this lock was, there wasn’t a chance in the Pit that Decepticon Command could connect with it to update personnel records by download. So Overlord had apparently decided to frag with him in absentia. How quaint. How ominous. He couldn’t even begin to think what that meant for his immediate future. Was this good? Bad? 

Time to retrieve archived history files. He hadn’t seen one of these locks outside of obsolete warship brigs since long before the Detention Centre. How were they even accessed? All commands had to be done verbally, he remembered that much.

“Command: I’ve lost my password.” Hopefully it wasn’t one of the really old ones that required exact wording for commands.

 _[Command not understood. Please repeat.]_

Frag his life. Okay, there were only so many ways the same thing could be requested. He had to hit on it eventually. It wasn’t like he had anything but time at this point. “Command: retrieve lost password.”

_[Command not understood. Please repeat.]_

“Command: lost password.”

_[Command not understood. Please repeat.]_

“Command: open sesame.”

_[Command not understood. Please repeat. User account will be locked in: three attempts.]_

Vortex made an odd squawking noise, hands coming up to wave denial at the microphone. Argh, no! Not fair! He hadn’t known there was an attempt limit! “Command: Password retrieving...er.” Ah _frag_ , that had been monumentally stupid. Could he have a do-over on life?

_[Command not understood. Please repeat. User account will be locked in: two attempts.]_

Frag, frag, _frag._ Two tries left. He had to think. What was simplistic enough to be understood by this kind of user interface, but common enough that it had once been widely used? He had to have accessed this lock model before. Autobots weren’t the only faction who’d hacked into bases! “Command: password retrieval.”

_[Command accepted. Password retrieval hint: Y/N?]_

For a second, he felt the urge to just collapse against the lockbox in relief. Command accepted! Yes, good. A hint? Excellent! Hints were marvelous, because at least then he wouldn’t just be flailing uselessly in the dark. “Command: yes.” Please let it be something standard, like his rank and serial code or something. Please, no more frustration. His fuel pump was going to give out with the stress.

The monitor blanked for a long moment before green glyphs printed out one at a time across it. _[Hint: ‘How sorry are you Vortex?’]_

The Combaticon reset his visor. He did it again when the glyphs were still there. They didn’t disappear this time, either. That wasn’t…had a lock really just…

He grabbed his helm with both hands and keened softly. Multi-legged code-critters skittered under his armor, burrowing into his cortex and biting everywhere. It _hurt_ , except it _didn’t_ , and he _couldn’t take it anymore!_ He had managed to forget for a couple of kliks how much his gestalt-links were aching. Of course Overlord would program the blasted _door_ to remind him. It woke the briefly-lulled machine instinct starving inside him, and Vortex’s vocalizer creeled quiet agony in response.

Oh, Primus. Gods of Cybertron and Earth and any deities who had mercy on idiots -- please _make it stop._ He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t deal with this.

But there was the tiniest sliver of hope amidst the torture, and he seized it. Overlord wouldn’t have gone through the effort of reducing the ‘copter to a shuddering junkie deprived of a fix if he hadn’t stayed to see how it played out, right? Right? It was what Vortex himself would have done, because the little lockbox trick would be a perfectly good mindfrag gone to waste if there was no one there to witness it. Yeah?

Hope twisted his fuel lines into tight knots. Overlord _had_ to be in there somewhere, probably right on the other side of the door. Laughing at him! Weren’t mecha in mental anguish just hilarious? Vortex was so funny when twitching in stymied need, right? Overlord probably found the whole situation a laugh riot. Yes, there was no other explanation. It was either that, or -- or --

No, of course that was it! Overlord was just on the other side of this door laughing at him.

...maybe? Please?

“I’m sorry. I’m very, very sorry,” he blurted to the lock array. It stayed frighteningly silent, hint given and cursor waiting at the ready. Vortex stared at it so hard his optical sensors bleated complaints to his processor. Despite how he willed the cursor to move, however, it stayed motionless. Had he been wrong? Was he supposed to use bigger words, or give actual measurements? How was he supposed to _measure_ how sorry he was? Was there a standard of measurement for this slag?!

“I’m sorry! Astronomically sorry! I -- I offer a hundred apologies. A thousand? What in the universe do you want to hear? I’ll say it, just tell me!” His hands hovered over the screen anxiously as if to appease it. “I’m so sorry. Really, I am! I -- please!“

The cursor still hadn’t moved. It was waiting for the right words, the right key for the lock to -- or, duh. It was waiting for a password. Talking at the microphone wouldn’t get him anywhere if he didn’t give it the cue for listening. 

Just when he thought he couldn’t feel any stupider, Overlord reminded him there were always lower positions he could inhabit.

“Password: I’m very sorry,” he said meekly. On the one hand, having a panic attack at the door wasn’t very dignified. On the other hand, he sort of hoped his split second of utter panic had been visible to possibly entertain Overlord if the triple-changer was watching.

_[Incorrect password. Password retrieval hint: Y/N?]_

Ugh. He was a moron and a fool, and if he couldn’t get this right, he’d be a whole fragging lot worse than that. “Command: yes.”

_[Hint: ‘Not sorry enough.’]_

He was apologizing to a door. He was actually apologizing to a door that had been programmed to recognize apologizing, and which was demanding a more profound apology. Vortex poured sincerity into his voice and gave the screen his best attempt at looking honest and trustworthy. “Password: I'm very, **very** sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so very sorry."

_[Incorrect password. Password retrieval hint: Y/N?]_

“Yes! Oh, for frag’s sake. Command: yes!”

_[Hint: ‘Not sorry enough.’]_

“Primus,” Vortex groaned, half prayer and half exasperation. Neither covered his fear. “What more can I do? Give me a slagging chance, here!” He pulled in a deep vent that did nothing to calm his racing fuel pump. There were hardware alerts popping up on HUD telling him that his circulation system was reaching critical pressure as unused energon continued to be forced into tubes until they distended. “Password: I'm sorry, Overlord. Please, please, I'm so sorry I'm -- I'm -- “ His tenuous composure crumpled, and he cast about for some way to show how apologetic he was. To show how terribly much he needed forgiveness.

He had to swallow down the pathetic remnants of his pride when he found a way. It went down painful as flechette shards but easier than he’d thought it would. “I’m on my knees, Overlord. Look, I'm on my knees.” Indeed he was, and his coding sighed relief for the submission. The Combaticon stared at the screen earnestly. “That's how sorry I am. I'm very, very sorry.”

_[Incorrect password. Password retrieval hint: Y/N?]_

“...Yes.” He shut his visor off and scrubbed his palms against the glass. He just wanted to blot out the world at this point. “I mean, command: yes.” What was he supposed to _say_? What apology could be even close to enough remorse to satisfy Overlord -- to satisfy the fragging _door_?

He felt so strung-out, so _tired_ by this whole ordeal.

_[Hint: ‘Disrespect.’]_

Disres -- ? Oh. _Oh._ Well, frag. The training clocked him in the back of the cortex, and he physically winced in reaction. He knew better than that. He really was an idiot. 

The red visor lit again to stare in defeated surrender at the evil screen and its mocking words. “Password: I'm very sorry, on-my-knees sorry, begging sorry, Overlord **sir**.”

_[Error: user voice identification conflict. Please repeat. Reminder: enunciation and volume components of user password must match recorded user voice identification.]_

Vortex let his head fall forward to bang against the wall under the lockbox. Reminder: speak up so every single humiliating word could be heard in detail.

Humbled to the ground, the ‘copter choked down the sick loathing filling his throat and did as he was told, repeating the abject apology in a loud, clear voice that wobbled just slightly at the end. Then, fuel pump hammering and ventilation system stalled out of pure dread, he slowly raised his gaze.

The screen was black. His vocalizer made a feeble wheezing sound.

The cursor suddenly blinked green. Vortex’s vents squeaked as he inhaled so fast the slats indented slightly. Glyphs printed across the screen one at a time while his hands clamped onto the bottom edge of the box and a wide red visor stared at it from a finger-width away.

_[Access password accepted. Welcome, user!]_

Vortex scrambled for the door before it had even finished opening completely, half terrified that it might lock him out again if he didn’t. Momentum and being only half on his feet nearly put his face into the floor of the security room, but he managed to keep his feet under him after a moment of teetering. He gave the guard station a nervous look and tip-toed across the room as if Overlord would burst into the room any second now.

The security room door didn’t open as he approached. That just about sent him into a fit of panic. Another lock?! “Come **on**!” Hadn’t he suffered enough already? This was ridiculous! “Give me a fragging **break** , here!”

The access console on this one was built right into the wall, and Vortex froze as _[Insubordination detected. Locking system engage: Y/N?]_ spelled across it.

“No, please! No sir!” His rotor blades fanned open in alarm, sliding apart and back together in anxious little movements. “Command: no sir! No disrespect intended, sir!”

Old equipment hummed as the ancient technology thought. The Combaticon stayed exactly where he’d stopped. His visor stared in silent appeal at the small screen, and he’d unconsciously snapped to attention in front of it. After a few minutes of waiting for judgment, he dared reach forward to touch the door itself. Nothing exploded. No damning glyphs told him he’d be punished for poor behavior. He pushed along the door, trying to coax it open, but of course that was too simple. 

“Command: open?” he tried.

There was more old-computer whirring. This base had to have been refurbished from before the war even began. Not that he was going to say a word about it, because with his luck, mentioning the age of the equipment would be considered an insult against the builders or designers or, frag, maybe even the computer itself. He didn’t know. He wasn’t going to risk complaining, anyway.

The access panel finally bleeped, and the door slid open.

He couldn’t stop himself from groaning a spark-felt, “ **Thank you** , sir!” as he bolted inside.

Okay, he had made it. He was inside. This had been the first time he’d ever had to beg pardon of and practically salute a creepily perceptive inanimate object, but hey. No big deal. Nothing he wouldn’t do again if he had to. No need to dwell on it. This was his life, and his life sucked; moving on, now.

Vortex glanced up and down the corridor outside the security room. One direction led to the lift and the stairs accessing the upper levels. There was a store room full of energon cubes and basic maintenance supplies down that way, and he had to fight off the urge to sneak in and hide his remaining stolen cubes in among the supplies. It was too late for that. Overlord had to know he’d taken as many cubes as he’d been able to stuff into his cargohold at the time. The other direction probably went to the outpost’s control room and such. Vortex didn’t actually know, since he’d only been on this level long enough to flee through it. 

Now he was back, and he didn’t know where to go. The base was completely silent. He turned in place, every piece of detection hardware strained to their limits. There still wasn’t a single sign of life anywhere in the fragging base --

One of his scanners pinged: one other energy signature detected.

A strangled _’gleep!’_ echoed down the corridor as a paroxysm of mingled joy and aching need buckled his joints. His vocalizer spat a low, long sputtering of white noise, and he braced his hands against the wall to support himself. Overlord was here. The slagging sadist hadn’t gone anywhere. He was not alone, _he was not alone_ , and he didn’t have to face an eternity of not even having the infinitesimal possibility of receiving a reward again.

Vortex turned and pelted for the stairs.

A reward, yes. A teensy popping noise from a burst bubble, just a stupid sound from a plastic air bubble, but his deep code screeched for it. For the amazing sound that happened when Vortex had been obedient. Or rather, when Overlord felt like popping the plastic bubble, because what the Combaticon did was only a method of proving that he could be a good subordinate. Whether he earned anything was by Overlord’s decision. 

Yes! Yes, Overlord sir! Frag not thinking about it, frag pride, and frag everything else, too. He _needed_ it. He needed it more than fuel, and more than any part of him that said otherwise. His logic hubs had had enough. They were laying out reasonable explanations for why resisting any further was the wrong choice. The gestalt-link thing tearing him apart inside agreed with every cable in his body. He’d had a free sample of what having this burning ache permanently would be like, and it’d been a blasted life-changing revelation, thank you very much. Hail Lord Megatron and pass the orders. Vortex was a reformed mecha, he really was! 

Reformed or not, he was still terrified at the thought of confronting the triple-changer. The questions he’d been fretting over were unanswered, and he didn’t have the first idea of how he could convince Overlord -- his officer, his trainer, his torturer -- of his change of spark. He’d learned obedience, Primus help him, he had. He’d be precisely what he was instructed to be, but that relied entirely on getting a chance to _demonstrate_ that fact. This situation was exactly like a deserter returning to the ranks swearing up and down that he wouldn’t do it again. Military protocol was rather unforgiving of such second thoughts. Vortex didn’t think his repentance would earn him anything as merciful as execution via a shot to the spark, either.

However, it couldn’t be worse than being left behind. Whatever Overlord wanted to do to him, anything the rusted slop-eater demanded he do as penance, he’d do it. He’d fragging well enjoy doing it if it meant he’d be taken back. Even if he was merely tolerated, kept around on some sort of trial period, that’d be an opportunity he’d be ecstatic to get.

He zeroed in on the energy signal like it was a beacon. Too strong to be a drone, too big to be anyone but Overlord. Up the stairs, and a left turn to run down the corridor in reverse of how he’d originally escaped, and he was uncomfortably certain of where the other Decepticon was located. He paused just around the corner to steel his nerves, in fact. He knew which room the triple-changer was in. He recognized it. It was _his_ room. Of course Overlord would choose that room, out of the entire outpost. 

Even from this spot around the corner, Vortex’s sensors were already picking up the small sounds of a living being. The air stirred, and there were metallic clicks and humming. The Combaticon forced himself to walk around the corner despite how his rotor blades trembled. The door was open. He could see the light coming from inside, as well as the constant sounds of a large mecha’s body functioning. The sight and sounds were real, and the squeezing hold on the base of his tanks eased a little as he walked toward them. They were a reassurance to the tight ache emitted by his gestalt software. There was someone else here, and he was no longer painfully isolated. That was cool relief to the deprived itch niggling his every thought, but his processors were demanding more information before dashing in there to grab all the social interaction he could in greedy hands. 

Only he wouldn’t be getting any. The only information he had was that Overlord had every advantage and all the control. The information Vortex could add to that meager stash consisted of whether he decided to sprawl on the floor right away or tried to face his doom standing upright. That would depend entirely on how weak his knees went at the first sight of Overlord. 

Right. On with the so-not-possible prospect of forgiveness it was, then.

Vortex walked slowly towards the dim light spilling from the open door. It was more of a shuffle than a walk. He was having difficulty getting his feet to agree with his head and coding about what direction he should go in. His body had abruptly discovered the feeling of being something weak but delicious, and in that room waited someone who preyed on small, crunchy ‘copters. The Combaticon rolled his shoulders in an attempt to settle the dispute between survival instinct and raw coding. Both were convinced the mecha inside the room was bigger and meaner than he ever could be, but whereas most of him knew that rolling over and submitting was the proper response, part of him really, really wanted to run away. 

His rotor hub whirred, jacking his rotor blades halfway into flight position before he managed to wrestle blind panic back into resignation. They slicked down his back again, just another visible sign that he was ready to surrender completely. Armor plating clamped down in defensive fear, and his vents flipped open and closed as his shoulders hunched. Look at him broadcast not-a-threat on all channels!

Please let this be enough to not get tossed out. He didn’t think he could take it if this were another mindfrag for the sadist’s pleasure, letting him in this far only to inform him in person of his ejection from the Decepticon ranks. So long, so sad, don’t let the door hit him on the way out because it was worth more than he was at this point.

His helm peeked slowly around the doorjamb, and Vortex saw Overlord. The ‘copter froze into a scared statue.

If the mecha weren’t so terrifying on multiple non-physical levels, it would have been anticlimactic. Overlord was sitting in a chair set in the middle of the room. That was it. He appeared to be reading. One leg rested, crossed over the other’s knee, and there was a datapad propped up on it. Occasionally, one massive hand rose so the triple-changer could sip from a tall glass of energon. From the pearlescent blue glow, it looked to be good quality high grade. For some reason, there appeared to be a bitty…umbrella?...sticking out of it. His other arm lay on the armrest but moved to flick a page forward on the little screen. Vortex watched in paralyzed fear for so long that the glass was emptied.

The _clink_ of the empty glass being set down finally motivated him to move. The Combaticon’s frame followed his helm into the doorway, trembling, and he uncertainly fidgeted there. Moment of truth time.

Overlord flicked his optics in his direction once, but continued reading. If Vortex broadcasted unthreatening, Overlord was uncaring communication central.

It was disorienting, like being faced by the closed door when he’d given up and come back. It was nothing like he’d expected, and that threw Vortex for a loop. The triple-changer was supposed to _do_ something! Be angry, be amused -- _react_ somehow to his return! Not this apathy. No, this wasn’t apathy. Vortex wasn’t even being acknowledged. He was being ignored as unimportant. 

What was he supposed to do now? There were no cues. He scanned the room desperately for some kind of signal for what he should do, or not do. There was nothing. An opened, half full cube of the high grade sat on the floor beside Overlord’s chair. There was a pile of shredded plastic in the corner, evidently swept aside after Vortex had torn his bubblewrap prison apart. The room stank of accumulated exhaust fumes and terror that’d sunk into the wall panels after his months-long stay, but maybe that was Vortex’s frantically spinning imagination at work. It was probably a normal room his gibbering mind painted in vivid memory. There was nothing here to fear but Overlord, and Overlord didn’t so much as look at him again. 

Which meant he wasn’t giving the jittery Combaticon’s conditioning what it needed. It was insisting to Vortex that he should do as he was ordered, but the larger Decepticon wasn’t given him even a vague gesture to obey! What could he do when anything he tried could be the wrong thing? Not doing anything could be the wrong thing, too! Should he do something? He owed this officer recompense, big time, but were soldiers supposed to take the initiative when facing trial?

Vortex realized he was panting, vents releasing short bursts of air as his ventilation system reset itself again and again, but he couldn’t stop doing it. His gestalt-links were screaming at him to do something already, anything, whatever it’d take to _make this right_ , but at the same time, the list of potentially dangerous variables kept on climbing higher and higher. Every pro had sixteen cons attached. This was outside the conditioning’s parameters, throwing it into upset as well, and his shivering picked up as his mind twisted and turned in frantic search for a solution. He needed to bring his present situation closer to what it had been before he’d escaped, because the unknown had him one step from glitching!

How the frag could he do that? He glanced around the room, but all that came to mind was trying to bury himself in the pile of discarded plastic wrappings. That seemed rather far-fetched even for as desperate as he was.

But -- _oh!_ There was one thing he could fix, and it was something he’d been prepared to do since realizing he had to come back. Admittedly, he hadn’t realized his coding would embrace it because it’d fix one difference between then and now. It was a gesture of submission and appeasement, but perhaps it would also just be a safe action to take. Safety was all he wanted out of life at this moment, and if it’d link the current situation to the one prior to his escape? All the better.

Overlord towered. The triple-changer’s optics had always looked down upon him from above. Sitting down, the mecha was barely at visor level with the ‘copter. Vortex could fix that, however. Still on the threshold, he folded slowly. The _clank_ of his knees hitting the floor sounded loud in the silence. He sat back on his heels with a wince for the clinking noise.

He swallowed, nervous that he’d done the wrong thing, but it was better. This was closer to what it had been like. Was it right?

Overlord kept gazing at the datapad for a minute more, apparently uncaring that he had Vortex waiting on tenterhooks for his verdict. A flick of the bored optics finally happened, however, and the Combaticon shifted uneasily as the triple-changer took his time saving his place and shutting down the datapad. Only once it was powered down did the huge officer set it on the chair’s armrest, hand casually laid on top. Then, at long last, Overlord turned his attention to the ‘copter kneeling in the doorway.

A staticky gurgle like the sound of a technimal dying messily left Vortex’s vocalizer. Yes, okay, mission accomplished. Good? Good! He had Overlord’s undivided attention now, and _he was so screwed._ Ugh. If he could only figure out what the sadistic aft _wanted_!

His hands were clamped so hard over his knees that hardware integrity warnings scrolled up his HUD. His visor alternated between looking at the floor and Overlord’s face, which was just as blank and probably even less helpful because it only reminded him that he didn’t know what the bastard wanted him to do next. What now? What now what now whatnow whatnow whatnow _whatnow?_

Maybe he had misunderstood? Maybe being watched like this was a warning sign. Overlord might be watching him like he’d watch a train wreck in progress as the Combaticon started down the road of fragging up.

He started to stand up -- and stopped cold. _That_ minute narrowing of red optics. That right there? That was a warning. It struck him straight in the conditioning, the ingrained part of his coding that recognized and reacted to even the slightest hint of a ranking mecha’s approval or disapproval. Which was -- oh, Primus save him from his corrupted base code -- good, it was _good_. He felt an echo of self-hate from knowing that latching onto this scrap wasn’t natural for him at all, but mostly he just floated in the sense of relief that flooded him. Cues were a _very good thing_ , and he was done fighting the idea. At least now he could gauge when he was about to really frag up. That was such a relief after the past few weeks that Vortex’s internal systems felt like they were unwinding out of knots.

Hesitantly, with his visor so focused on the triple-changer’s face that the background blurred into darkness, Vortex leaned forward. No narrowing? Confirmed. Proceed. Slowly, he placed his hands on the ground and began crawling, still utterly focused on Overlord’s expression. Just look at the little ‘copter on the floor! Such a harmless Combaticon, yes he was. He was approaching the chair. Was that alright? Was it at least not wrong? Vortex crawled at an extremely slow pace, the most unthreatening Cybertronian in existence, and maybe, if it was okay, he should be closer? But only if it was okay. Little ‘copter wouldn’t presume to do anything that wasn’t approved.

His deep-code was throwing a party of approval at this halting approach, and for once, his conscious mind was right there with it. This was what he should be doing, getting back to where he belonged via any route necessary, and Vortex had passed the point where his logic hubs disagreed with that decision. The motionless facial plating around red glass was all Vortex could see by now. He could relax a tiny fraction, seeing it. This wasn’t a hit-and-miss game anymore. Overlord was guiding him. All he had to do was fanatically follow any hints. That was good. It was how things should be. It felt...safe.

He couldn’t even be ashamed by that anymore.

He was wondering if he’d have to actually crawl into Overlord’s lap when a slight twitch of the triple-changer’s face slapped him with, _’That’s close enough, scrapheap.’_ The command to halt was nonverbal, but the contempt was almost audible. Vortex stopped, hands retreating back to his knees as he huddled at the foot of the chair with his head tipped back to stare up at the huge officer. Overlord uncrossed his legs, and Vortex found himself looking up at that impassive face from between massive feet.

A military rotary frame was no small fry, but mecha built like Blast Off or Astrotrain had always towered above him. That wasn’t new. Yet Overlord made him feel incredibly small, and it had nothing to do with their respective frametypes. The triple-changer was sitting in a simple industrial chair like a thousand others in a hundred bases, but to Vortex it looked like a throne. It _felt_ like a throne. Only one mecha here had power, and that left Vortex without a crumb of it himself.

It made the rotary feel small and anxious, and he rocked a bit on his heels out of flustered, directionless anxiety. He just wished all of this was over already so his life could return to the tranquility of a predictable plastic prison. He would look in whatever direction he was told to, and he’d stay still as stone if Overlord deigned to unwrap him at all from now on. Maybe he’d eventually be rewarded with a stupid popped bubble, wouldn’t that be nice? It’d be safe and known and not -- not this nonstop terror of making the wrong decision, and -- and --

He was gasping softly, small staticky sobs of distress when there was a quiet tapping sound. His visor flickered, searching for the source of the noise, and he was vaguely confused when his gaze settled on the empty glass. One huge hand was wrapped around it, and as Vortex watched, the fingers tapped the glass pointedly. What did that mean? Was he supposed to be doing something? Was Overlord impatient with him just sitting here? But he hadn’t been told what to do! Vortex couldn’t do anything until he was told to! That had been trained into him so deeply he could practically taste the hard-coding, and he was _done_ resisting the conditioning, honest Overlord sir, yessir, Overlord sir. 

His visor looked up at Overlord’s face again, desperately seeking direction, and the intense aura of contempt gained a caustic edge. Vortex cringed as one side of the plush lips curled in an opulent sneer. His own mouth worked uselessly behind his mask, but his vocalizer wasn’t going to activate for anything less than a direct question from Overlord. The fingers tapped again, and the officer’s optics deliberately went to the glass. Vortex’s visor followed, because what else was he supposed to do? He stared at the empty glass helplessly. His hands clenched and unclenched on his knees. It was an empty glass! Did that mean something?

An empty glass didn’t mean anything! There hadn’t been a fragging glass in any of the training sessions. He understood the idea of anticipating a command, but the only command he could think of was that Overlord wanted him to look at the glass. Why? What did an empty glass indicate?

The triple-changer’s vents huffed impatiently, and the hand on the glass extended one finger. It ticked to the side and slightly down. Vortex followed the motion without even thinking, leaning back in order to peer around the giant leg in his way. 

Oh, thank Primus. Directions. An empty glass meant that he should fill it, of course! Obvious in hindsight, but that didn’t matter now. 

The ‘copter scooted back a bit, visor cautiously watching for the least sign of disapproval, and he sort of knee-walked sideways just enough to reach for the cube of high grade on the floor beside the chair. Motor control wasn’t something he excelled at right now, but he carefully picked up the half full cube and raised up off his heels just enough to lift it toward the empty glass. The energon jiggled inside the cube as his hands shook finely, and he cycled air a few times to settle his nerves. He really, really did not want to spill high grade into Overlord’s lap. That would be…no, he didn’t want to think about that.

Concentrating hard, he tipped the liquid into the glass. The umbrella drink decoration thingie kept getting in the way, threatening to splash fluid everywhere. He had to push it aside with one finger, afraid to use too much force for fear of damaging it. His hands continued trembling, but he managed to pour all of the high grade where it belonged. Success got a long, shaky exhale of stale air. He sat back slowly, using both hands to set the empty cube on the floor as if aligning it with the chair leg were a task of utmost importance. Once it was perfectly squared, the ‘copter risked looking up, visor wide in unconscious hope that Overlord approved of his work.

The sneer had settled into a derisive frown, and the Combaticon wilted as his hopes were crushed by it. The hand not on the glass snapped and pointed at the floor in front of the officer. Metal clattered as Vortex hurried to resume his previous position kneeling between Overlord’s feet. His hands hovered between resting on his knees again or daring to touch one of the triple-changer’s legs in supplication. They ended up just lamely pressing into the center of his own chest, curled together like he was begging. Exactly like that, but he wasn’t even aware they were doing it. He knelt and shook, staring upward. Look at him being a repentant little ‘copter. Hadn’t he done what he was told? He could be good. Let him try, please. _’Orders, sir?’_

Overlord regarded him steadily, frown gradually deepening. Vortex’s rotor blades rustled as his shaking worsened, but the officer merely lifted the refilled glass to take a sip. He replaced the glass without once looking away from his rebellious pet project, and the Combaticon’s neck cables flexed as the need to speak climbed up his throat. He didn’t, however. 

The triple-changer’s unoccupied hand rose and extended toward him. It stopped in mid air, just in front of and above him. It was as relaxed as the rest of Overlord’s body, held neutral but waiting. It was an open invitation that Vortex latched onto as if his sanity depended on it. That probably wasn’t far from the truth.

Inscrutable optics watched as he pushed up off his heels and tentatively pressed his helm into the open palm.

Weird? Yes, immensely so. Vortex had no idea what was going on, but on some level he kind of did. He knew he did because the raw machine-code beast he’d become was purring happily at how the situation was progressing. The reasons behind it eluded him, however. He had never, not in his whole sordid life seeking pleasures and pains of every type, wanted someone to stroke him like a technimal. Yet here he was, nudging into Overlord’s hand and drifting in a sudden calm sea of contentment. What the frag?

True, it was desperately desired contact; that, he understood. His deprived gestalt-links were soaking themselves in the data from his sensor network. Being pet this way was also a graphic definition of submission, which he presumed was why his well-trained internal self was rolling around under it in blissful reaction. The undeniable outward display of ownership was likely what the triple-changer was going for, but Overlord had never before _offered_ anything of the sort. If there was a reward, Vortex had been made to earn it through good behavior and progress in the training. 

This was right and felt good, and therefore it was a privilege he had lost the moment he’d run away. Successfully filling a glass wasn’t enough to earn forgiveness, much less a reward. He reveled in the moment because he was probably never going to get another bubble-pop in his life, but this was something new. New was scary. At this point in his post apologizing-to-doors existence, _anything_ new from Overlord terrified the struts out of Vortex.

So Vortex leaned into the broad palm, making small rubbing movements, but he shivered as he did so. He wondered what was expected of him now that he had apparently made the right choice, if the slight pat to the helm were anything to go by. Yes, yes, he belonged to Overlord. He knew it and was absolutely fine with that claim on his life and liberty. Yes, yes, okay. Please don’t punish him?

“Vortex,” said the rich voice that haunted his nightmares, “you’ve committed willful, gross misconduct.”

The Combaticon’s nudging stopped as if the hydraulic fluid had suddenly evaporated from his actuators, but the hand on his helm slid to cup the back. It tugged almost imperceptibly, and Vortex obeyed the implied order. The hand tilted his head up until his visor looked directly into the officer’s optics. Patiently carved protocols sparked to life, and the ‘copter found himself relaxing against all logic. He felt like he was one step outside his body, staring in disbelief at his own absurd actions, but it was the conditioning. The conditioning had the power to boot him out of control just like that. Poof. Control of his own body: gone. 

His mind reluctantly agreed after a few moments of tense thought. It wasn’t that he _objected_ anymore. He just…hadn’t understood right away. His body knew by spark when to answer, if not what his processors would have to think up to say. His body had found its safe sanctuary. His mind was the part left waiting apprehensively.

Overlord’s optics bore into him, and the larger Decepticon sounded almost clinical as he laid out Vortex’s crimes. “You have been insubordinate through consistent disobedience to direct orders, as well as disregarding implicit orders. Such behavior constitutes disrespect to authority. In addition, or perhaps as an extension of such insubordinate acts, you have been Absent Without Leave from your assigned post. I must conclude from your behavior that you were AWOL with intention to desert.” Vents sighed. The triple-changer was so put-upon. “As the only officer of the Decepticon Empire present, it falls to me to pass judgment on your case, and I find you guilty of all charges. That leaves sentencing, and I think we can both agree that execution alone cannot pay back the debt you owe the Empire…and me. You’ve wasted my time, Vortex, and that is a crime I take personally.” The optics burned a threatening crimson, and Vortex’s shivering had turned into all-over trembling as his body caught on to the fact that this wasn’t over by a long shot. “I believed we were making progress, but you **misbehaved**.” 

There was no amusement in that deep voice. There was only a descriptive neutrality, and in the absence of audible threat, the wrath searing against the back of Vortex’s helm burnt even worse. The triple-changer had kept his EM field leashed close, but now it expanded to smack into Vortex’s circuitry in a wave of hard rage. 

Overlord was _angry._

Panic seized the kneeling mecha’s spark at the confirmation that he had been a _bad_ subordinate. He was nothing but a failed soldier and a disappointment to his commanding officer. The desire to argue his case swelled up his throat. He needed to speak, to plead with Overlord, because -- just because. It was a fact of his life that everything good came at Overlord’s sufferance. He had to find a way back into the officer’s favor, and -- and the bubble pop wasn’t even a dream. Realistically, what he needed was to beg forgiveness. He wanted to deny his guilt, to assure the triple-changer it had all been a terrible mistake that would never be repeated, and to apologize. He wanted to bend over his knees until his forehelm touched the floor, and ask for mercy at length.

But the hand kept his helm from moving, and he had not been asked. He was still not permitted to talk. Vortex’s teeth clenched, and his engine whined thinly.

“Do you remember what I told you once?” The anger pulsed against the back of his head, and the ‘copter quivered as Overlord leaned just a tad closer. “What did I promise you, Vortex? Refresh my memory.”

The order propelled the memory file to his vocalizer so fast Vortex swore he felt it impact the back of his teeth. “Yes, yes! I remember, sir! You -- you promised that I would learn obedience and -- and respect, and to do as I was told, uh, gratefully.” The cowering Combaticon hesitated, but Overlord nodded in a go-ahead gesture. “You…sir, you promised that I’d adore every glance you gave me and hang off any word you threw in my direction, and that -- that I would praise Me -- um, Lord Megatron for sending me here. That…that there was nothing I could do to prevent it from happening, and -- uh -- ” The recitation finished with the metallic clicking of a terrified vocalizer struggling to get rid of static. 

“Ah-ha,” Overlord said, enlightened. “Now that’s interesting. You **do** remember.” He sat back in his chair, and the small shift dragged Vortex a tiny fraction closer to the powerful electromagnetic energy field trying to hook into his comparatively weak field. It felt like Overlord’s ambient energy was trying to devour him. “And here I’d thought you’d perhaps suffered a blow to the helm and forgotten.” Large fingers tap-tapped the back of his helm, and Vortex’s rotor blades clattered together. “But no, it seems that even in this you are not innocent. Are you trying to make me go back on my word on purpose, then?” 

“N-no?” He _had_ , however, and that was the worst part. The training sucker-punched Vortex hard enough to reset his vocalizer. 

_’Don’t lie to me, Vortex.’_

Oh, Primus spare him. He couldn’t lie to Overlord anymore than he could disobey the triple-changer.

No no, wait, he _had_ intentionally disrupted Overlord’s plans, but that had been in the past! He wasn’t currently trying to do anything but obey! “No, sir, no,” he fumbled out, practically falling over his own words in his haste to get them out. “I’m not, I’m really not. I -- I don’t want you to break your promises, sir. Please believe me, I won’t -- ”

“Hmmm? Your actions speak differently.” The officer pulled him forward again, closing the distance between them despite the Combaticon’s alarmed EM field. “You disobey. You refuse to learn respect. You are **ungrateful**.” The last word was said distastefully, and it was punctuated by the hand leaving Vortex’s helm to rub the Overlord’s chin. The hulking Decepticon looked disgusted by Vortex’s misbehavior, but also thoughtful. This required pondering, apparently. “I don’t think you appreciate what I did for you.”

A pained sound of denial wrenched from the rotary mecha. He hadn’t been asked, so the conditioning fought to keep Vortex from answering, but _frag_! He couldn’t get much more screwed than this, could he?

For the record, that wasn’t a challenge. In fact, he took back that thought entirely just in case the universe tried to take him on. 

“I do! Please, sir, I’m sorry and I’ve l-learned better. I’ll be respectful, and I’ll obey, and I’m so very grateful. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, I swear! I’m grateful that you tr-trained me, and -- and -- that you stayed here, and -- ” He looked down, scanning himself, frantic to show how much he appreciated the conditioning before Overlord pitched him out on his sorry aft. There wasn’t anything he could do to -- oh! There was one thing he possessed that might work! “Overlord sir, I’m grateful, please let me…just…a moment? Please?”

Although that would mean he’d have to give it up. Hand it over. Let it go.

Vortex swallowed hard and twisted to paw at his own foot. It took some awkward contortions of his wrist, but he snared what he was looking for. The wrinkled piece of plastic pulled out in a squeaking rustle to lay in Vortex’s hands, and his vocalizer shorted with a sad little _’blee-oop’_. It refused to restart, which was fine. It was fine because there were no more words he could say.

The dull light of his visor transfixed on the jagged swatch of plastic. He didn’t want to, but he had to. Almost in slow motion, his shaking hands extended towards the seated mecha, palms open like they were presenting an offering. 

If he’d been able to look at anything but the tiny bubbles glistening red in the light of his visor, he might have seen the flash of amused surprise that crossed Overlord’s face. It wasn’t directed at Vortex, but at the piece of plastic. It had nearly every single bubble intact. 

When Overlord daintily plucked it off the Combaticon’s hands, they squeaked together in a familiar sound that made giving it up entirely worth it. Vortex shut off his visor and _listened_ as hard as he could, outstretched hands curling into tight fists that slowly returned to press against his own chest plates. The sadist squished the plastic gently just to watch his rotor blades flutter.

“You are grateful, you say. You swear it. Then you must surely be able now to answer that question I posed you? It was left open before, do you remember? I did wait for you to answer.” Overlord turned the piece of plastic in his hands as the red visor lit again in horrified denial. “Regarding Lord Megatron’s decision to send you here, you may recall?”

Vortex couldn’t suppress the flinch and high-pitched blurt of static at the name. He did recall, and he knew where this was going. Yes, he knew. He had assumed this punishment would happen the second he returned, but Overlord liked playing with his prey. “I -- I can’t -- hhgh.” The ‘copter grabbed his helm in his hands and hunched over.

_**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]** _

Why even bother? He couldn’t lie to the officer. This was something Overlord dug up that he couldn’t defend himself against, because there was no possible way he’d ever feel anything but the deepest loathing for that rusted cogsucker -- _**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_

 _Argh!_ Why even try evading? He should just give up now. The slagging triple-changer would keep pressing that button until Vortex tipped over into shutdown, and then it’d happen again, and again, and --

“Why did you take this with you?” was asked out of nowhere.

The topic change made Vortex’s mind summersault with relief. His cortex seized ahold of the change and wrenched itself off the road toward cold reboot. It made his processors ache, but it _worked_. Which…inspired wariness. Vortex turned his helm and looked up at the triple-changer through his fingers. What was the officer playing at? He _knew_ Overlord didn’t do pity, but that had been a rope thrown to a drowning frame. Overlord wouldn’t do that unless the other end was tied to a heavy, sinking object. Yet he couldn’t refuse the save, because it was a respite for the loyalty software. Vortex would take that with open arms.

Right, then. Crisis averted, on to answering the saving question. Why had he taken the bubbles?

Well, that was a good question, wasn’t it?

“Because...” Behind his mask, Vortex’s lips shaped the word once again. His visor returned to staring at the glistening bubbles as Overlord make them squeal together, taut plastic against taut plastic. Needy code sat up and begged for a _pop_ , muddling his thoughts. 

He finally admitted, “I don’t know, sir.” He kind of did, but ‘instinct’ wasn’t much of an explanation.

Concentrated terror crept up his back struts as Overlord’s optics narrowed slowly down at him. Vortex’s HUD all but presented him with subtitles: _’Wrong answer, Vortex. You have about half a second to fix it.’_

“Please! I don’t know, Overlord sir, I can’t explain! It makes it a tiny bit better -- I don’t -- I crumpled it!” His hands made vague clutching motions miming what he’d done, and the triple-changer regarded them with a mildly amused expression. “I sort of crinkled it, and the noises made it better, or at least not worse, for -- for a little while, anyways. Please, sir, I. It’s…closer...” Vortex’s scattered explanation trailed off into a dismal noise of confusion. His visor was flickering rapidly, searching for the right words to explain what he’d done in a way that didn’t sound completely insane. Taking a piece of plastic for the teensy sound of wrinkling? He could barely justify that to himself. He hadn’t been able to think clearly about it even as he’d done it!

He didn’t know what he should say. How could he explain something that he couldn’t consciously come to terms with?

“Closer to what, exactly?” The question was asked in a lazy drawl, but Overlord’s optics were intent. There was expectation in them, twin spots of malevolent intent watching the ‘copter for a particular answer.

A direct question. _Good!_ This, he could answer. At least he could find the words to explain this easier, even if it was something he’d have eaten his own rotor blades to avoid admitting out loud.

Intakes skreeled shut in his throat, but he forced the words out. “The **pop** , sir.”

“Oh?” The plastic was lifted and inspected, bubbles bulging on the edge of bursting. Vortex’s ventilation cycles were erratic and loud, and he couldn’t look away. Oh please. Oh please. Just a smidgen more pressure, please! “You mean the sound when these pop?”

“Yes, Overlord sir,” the ‘copter agreed hoarsely. Augh, the triple-changer was chuckling. Vortex was relieved that the officer was amused by him instead of angered, he really was, but a part stuffed far under his writhing mind seethed. 

He stomped on it. Better amusement than the alternative. 

“Very well. Go ahead.”

What? Vortex’s helm recoiled in surprise as the huge hand held the scrap of plastic down to him, shoving it almost into his mask. What did he...what?

“You said you took this,” the big Decepticon twirled the thin plastic between his fingers, “because it made you feel better. Because it’s closer to the, heh heh, **pop** sound. Isn’t that what you wanted, Vortex? Isn’t that what made you feel good?”

“Yes, sir.” He helplessly looked between the plastic and the sadist. “I-I want it, but -- I do, so much, Overlord sir, but I -- ”

Plush lips curved in a satisfied, knowing smile. “Then do it. If it was important enough that you prized this over the discipline granted you, then you must truly want it more than anything I can provide. You threw to the ground all the instructions I gifted you on proper behavior, but you kept this. So it must be something outstanding to see. I want to watch how **good** it feels, Vortex.”

The Combaticon’s EM field heaved in horror at the sheer wrongness of the situation. This was not supposed to happen! How could he -- it didn’t _work_ without --

He was terrified because it wasn’t going to work. He could pop every bubble in existence, but it still wouldn’t work. Worse than that was that the failure in front of Overlord would make it look as though he had lied to the triple-changer. It wouldn’t work, and demonstrating that fact would only serve to humble and humiliate him. Because of course Overlord knew that popping a bubble on his own did absolutely anything. Because that’s what Overlord had painstakingly grooved through his mind.

But he’d been ordered to do it, anyway. So he had to. He _had_ to.

“Well? I’m waiting. Show me, Vortex.”

The sliver of impatience that made its way into the officer’s amusement shook Vortex out of his paralyzed state. Overlord’s hand turned to give him back the innocuous piece of plastic, and the rotary mecha’s whole frame rattled when he reached up to reluctantly accept it. The triple-changer sat slightly forward in his seat, body language interested but dousing the kneeling Combaticon with smug gloating. It made the shaky ‘copter all the more acutely aware that this little show was for entertainment only, and he was terrifyingly ignorant of how Overlord was going to amuse himself next.

Bleeding a wavering stream of static from his vocalizer, Vortex lowered his gaze to the bubblewrap. His hands trembled as he singled out a bubble.

Despite himself, he tensed in trained expectation.

_Pop!_

As predicted, nothing happened. It was just a noise.

It was...mortifying. He couldn’t even fully explain why. Objectively, he had done far worse than popping a plastic air pocket today. He had groveled, pleaded, and debased himself verbally to the _n_ th degree. He had apologized to a door, crawled on four limbs, and actively participated in receiving a pat on his head, all in the last hour. Still, somehow nothing compared to the withering shame he experienced just by popping a bubble for himself under Overlord’s observation. Everything else had felt like survival. He’d done it because he’d to. He’d done it in order to appease Overlord’s wrath, get in the building, -- and frag, just stay sane.

This? This was nothing more than a graphic reminder of how short-sighted his actions were and how wrong his choices had been. Served up in all its ridiculous splendor for his officer’s viewing pleasure.

“Vortex, it doesn’t seem to be working,” Overlord _tsk_ ed, shaking his head as if disappointed. The ‘copter shrank toward the floor, braced for the hit. He wasn’t unprepared, but neither could he brace against Overlord’s next order. “Why don’t you try again?” If any more smugness entered Overlord’s EM field, it would start condensing on the walls.

Vortex’s elbows met the floor with quiet clanks as he cowered the rest of the way down. Oh, Primus. He had to do it again? His hand joints felt too stiff for fine movements, but it wasn’t like he had a choice. 

_Pop. Pop!_

The Combaticon’s armor plating clamped so tight to his hunched frame that the gaps were almost invisible. His rotor blades were a rigid line down his back. After a short eternity studying the ‘copter nearly prostrate between his feet, Overlord sat back in his chair. He hummed thoughtfully. When Vortex dared peek upward, he saw that a good-natured smile graced Overlord’s lips, if not his optics, and acrid amusement stained the overwhelming EM field bearing down on him.

The fragger’s power plant purred maliciously under innocent inquiry. “Was it worth it? Do you feel good now, Vortex? That must have been worth discarding everything I gave you.”

“No, Overlord sir,” Vortex choked out, unaware that he’d crumpled the plastic in his hands under his chin in a pathetic gesture of pleading. “It…I don’t…” Of course he didn’t feel good. Of course the plastic by itself wasn’t worth anything. There was nothing to it. It was just a parody of the real thing, an empty gesture.

They both knew it, but gutting the Combaticon’s pride and wringing the raw wound for every agonized scrap of resistance was the point. 

Overlord’s pretended surprise made light of Vortex’s cringing surrender. “Oh? I thought this is what you wanted?” The smile twitched, and the triple-changer gave a little nod. In Vortex’s _‘Guide to Overlord’s Nonverbal Cues,’_ that meant dark enjoyment of the game plus unidentified ill intentions. It meant bad things on so many different levels. 

Vortex, meet floor. Time to become _very_ well acquainted.

“I -- n-no. It’s not...the same. Sir.”

“Why not?” Overlord was the most caring officer. He was only concerned for the well-being of his subordinate, obviously.

His subordinate wanted to scream at him to just _get it over with._ The game was won, he’d lost, now please move on! 

Instead, he wrestled his vocalizer into a rough whisper in order to admit, “Because it’s not...you...giving it, sir.”

“Is that so?” the larger mecha drew out. How interesting! Just fascinating! Clearly, Vortex should explain further. “What difference does that make?”

Stop, just stop. He couldn’t possibly be any more humiliated by his own warped psyche. Except that he had no doubt Overlord would gleefully prove him wrong soon enough. The ‘copter dragged in a deep vent that did nothing to calm his shattered nerves. “Because if it comes from you, sir, it’s a reward. Because…” He had to swallow something bitter and almost physical. “Because it means you’re pleased, sir.”

“Aah,” said Overlord, and he smiled.

And that single instant was _everything_ to Vortex. That was the sound of approval, the sound of things made right. He had done something correctly, and the Combaticon’s spark surged with that small sound because it meant he’d been _good_. He knew the pride in that smile wasn’t directed at him, but he couldn’t help but bask in it all the same. He stared up at his officer, visor wide and pleading and so fragging _needy_ , and Overlord’s approval trickled down to him in the thinnest thread for him to lap at eagerly.

“So you **do** understand what your reward is,” was stated, and the big hand opened. 

Vortex lunged upward to shove his precious plastic into it, scared to hesitate even a second, and he watched hungrily as the fingers closed one by one. “Yessir, I understand, sir!”

The bubbles began to squeak together again, and it was the sweetest torture the ‘copter had ever endured. Would he get a pop? Would he? “Then why did you rebel against the very thing you want, Vortex?” Overlord asked, just a mecha confused by the illogic. What a strange thing Vortex had done, running away from what he wanted so badly. “Why didn’t you cooperate with what your own code demands?”

“It was a mistake,” groaned out of the ‘copter. The red visor glazed as over-bright optical sensors reflected off the inside of the glass. “I’m an idiot, sir. Please, **please** forgive me. I’m so sorry. I’ll cooperate. I’ll do as I’m told, I promise. I’ve learned my lesson, and I’ll obey. Please forgive my stupidity. I made a mistake, and I’m sorry, and it won’t happen again. I want to please you. I really do, Overlord sir. I really do want to please you.”

“Ah, but you are forgetting this is not about **me** , Vortex. Do you think I'd waste my time here just to train an unruly Decepticon grunt like you to do backflips for my amusement like a circus technimal? That would require me to keep you under my command for the rest of your military career.” An unpleasant shimmer of interest went through the triple-changer’s EM field, and the ‘copter winced. He suddenly and very devoutly began praying to any and all gods that the nightmare of remaining under Overlord’s command wouldn’t continue indefinitely. Yes, he was begging to be taken back right now, but he backpedaled away from a yawning future full of the sadist. “Do you really think you are worthy of that?”

Primus, he hoped not. “No sir,” he hurried to say. “I’m not worthy, but I-I, um. I’m grateful you’ve taken the time to train me despite that! I’m very sorry for my -- my misconduct and…and poor behavior, and I assure you that it won’t continue. My absence was not meant to be desertion. I -- I confess to intentionally leaving my, uh, post, but I never meant to abandon the Decepticon Cause.” That probably wasn’t any better an excuse, but he had to try to explain himself. “I beg that you commute my sentence to -- to a punishment that will allow me to make up for my crimes. Attempting to leave here was a stupid mistake I sincerely regret, and please, sir, you, um. You o-once said it was good that I recognized when I should repent, and I do. I’m sorry, and I apologize for wasting your valuable time. I’m ready to return to duty, Overlord sir.” Even if his duty was evidently being the triple-changer’s toy. 

“You can determine that on your own, hmm?”

Vortex’s vocalizer felt strangely thick, the individual components sticking oddly. “No, sir.”

“Indeed you cannot,” Overlord rumbled, standing up and sliding the chair backwards in a single slow movement. The hand not holding the bubblewrap extended down to the ‘copter, and Vortex following the direction of that hand. It directed him up until he knelt upright again with his aft resting on his heels and mask up-turned by two cumbersome fingers lightly placed under his chin. The triple-changer the fingers belonged to loomed over him like a monolith. “But you are here per Lord Megatron's command, and as an officer of the Decepticon Empire, I am therefore delegated by him to assess your readiness to serve. Do you understand that, Combaticon?”

The words had an air of official judgment about them that worried the ‘copter. The last time he’d heard words spoken in that cadence, it’d been when Shockwave sentenced Onslaught and his unit to the Detention Centre. That brought back memories that caused his fuel pump to start hammering. Vortex tried to hunch in deference without lowering his helm against the fingers making him stare upwards. His audios funneled Overlord’s words straight into his mind, and the demanding monster of software cradles and gestalt code inside him absorbed them as if they were Primus-delivered drivers downloading from His source-code.

“You are worthless to me, Vortex. You have no value in my optics. You are a waste of my time, but this isn’t about **me**. What has happened to you was done at Lord Megatron’s request. Everything I have done was at his command,” Overlord explained in a low, compelling voice. “Your insolence is not aimed at me, nor is your desertion a personal offence. I am here on behalf of Lord Megatron, as is every officer under his command and above you. We are representatives of him. You have committed your crimes against Lord Megatron himself, just as each time you receive a reward from my hand, it is **his** approval you earn.”

Vortex’s chin was released, but the red visor stayed fastened to Overlord’s optics. He could hardly see the triple-changer through the glare of overbright optical sensors. By now, the wide glass visor had bleached to a pale color as the optical sensors underneath reflected against the inside, leaking strips of almost-white light above and below the glass where the frame had widened too far. His audios buzzed with the strain. Tremors shook the smaller Decepticon’s body in rhythm with the officer’s words as they integrated into software in a way he had no way to stop. Code rewrote and connected into a new pattern, and he was helpless to do anything but feel it happen.

Overlord stood over him, and he sampled the confused dismay filling the kneeling mecha’s EM field. His smile widened into something grandly self-satisfied. "When you do not earn that reward, my dear disobedient Combaticon, you are not disappointing me. You are failing the officer set over you, and therefore you are disobeying Megatron.” He bent just enough to pat the ‘copter on the head twice. “Think on that."

Vortex accepted the demeaning gesture numbly. It didn’t even register, really. He remained immobile, sitting on his heels and processing the depth of what had just happened. This moment redefined the Pit than had been his life under Overlord’s hands. Redefined it by taking the filters off his vision and showing him the true horror the conditioning had prepared him for.

He was in the Pit, and it was a very deep hole indeed. Vortex could kiss any hope he might have ever, _ever_ held goodbye, because Overlord was going to lower it in to smelt down for the fun of watching the Combaticon meekly going up in flames. He was practically on the verge of spontaneous combustion right now, for frag’s sake!

The triple-changer’s words connected the line of dots carefully laid between his innermost code and the loyalty program. Every action had left a mark leading to this moment, every reward or punishment interconnected, and now the web was weaving together to tie it all together -- and tie him down. Overlord had set everything up, exquisitely precise and professionally patient, and Vortex’s Pit-spawn gestalt-links and machine code had been standing at the ready. The whole conditioning system had been crafted specifically for him: the bubbles, the isolation, and the aching need. A specialized room in the Pit, and the Combaticon’s shoulders slumped like the inevitable slow collapse of a civilization as everything came together at last.

Welcome to the Pit. Population: Vortex. No exit. Occasional dancing prisoner shows on demand. Obedience not optional.

This had all been a purposely designed path leading him to set up his own prison. This new part of himself Overlord had shaped to his will, the metal-beast meticulously separated out and strengthened, had become him. Conscious mind and machine instinct slotted into one another like a document sliding into a file. His innermost code’s newfound need to please Lord Megatron tucked him neatly under the overarching shadow of the loyalty program. In turn, the stray associations and altered priorities that made up Overlord’s conditioning incorporated the loyalty software’s insidious tendrils to itself.

The link had been made. The loyalty program now saw every officer -- as represented by Overlord at this moment -- as Megatron in proxy. The conditioning and loyalty program would activate together, now. He wouldn’t just be unable to think or do certain things; his coding would viscerally make him not _want_ to think or do those things. Vortex had to obey because of the blasted loyalty software, but the conditioning ensured that he _wanted_ to obey. The fragging needy creature crouched inside Vortex’s helm _was_ Vortex, now, and he was eager to obey. Oh, but he was eager. 

Overlord had succeeded in closing off the work-arounds determined mecha could dig out around loyal programming. He’d trapped Vortex where Shockwave and Starscream had failed. 

Was it torture or mercy that he was able to see it happening? On the one hand, he hadn’t been mindwiped or conditioned in a way that he ended up with no idea that he had been twisted into a different mindset. On the other hand...

From this perspective, his consciousness could observe perfectly. He had a very clear understanding of what had been done to him. He knew exactly what was going on. Overlord had made certain of _that_ , either out to test the integrity of the conditioning or out of undiluted sadism. Vortex’s money was on the sadism. He hadn’t been instilled with just an unconscious desire to do as he was told. He’d learned to submit to that desire on pain of self-inflicted punishment, and now he’d be stuck helplessly watching that submission happen over and over again. He was still able to appreciate the course of action he would have taken before the conditioning, but he could already tell that he’d be completely powerless to choose that course. 

Even knowing it wasn’t what he wanted, Vortex was going to consciously decide not to follow his previous mannerisms, and behavior, and…frag him. Words, lifestyle, favorite color, hobbies, weaponry, friends -- Primus spare him, because he’d do whatever he was told to do by an officer now. What he _had wanted_ was scrapped in favor of what the new conditioning dictated he should do.

Overlord had trained him to be unable to disobey.

His vocalizer activated but didn’t make a sound. Knowledge of how screwed he truly was permeated his thoughts gradually, seeping into him. Hopelessness slumped his shoulders. This wasn’t a sudden horrible realization. It was more like a distillation. Hope had been scooped out of him, leaving misery to ferment into purest despair. The red visor lit slowly, regaining its color and focus as Vortex reluctantly turned his attention outward again. 

Amidst the silent desperation suffocating him, Vortex dully stared up at Overlord and wondered what else the triple-changer could do to him. There was nothing left. He was done. Vortex gave up. He’d be a good soldier and bow to Lord Megatron’s will. There was nothing else that could be done to him. Overlord had to be finished, now.

He really needed to stop daring the universe to make things worse. The universe had it out for him.

The tall Decepticon had remained still, watching him. At some point, he’d picked up his glass of high grade to sip at again. One forefinger fiddled with the festive drink decoration. He noticed when the ‘copter returned to the real world, however, and he nodded to himself a bit as if confirming something. 

The triple-changer turned around and took hold of the chair with his unoccupied hand. Vortex watched Overlord arrange the piece of furniture neatly before him, the empty seat facing the numbly depressed Combaticon. Overlord took his time, still occasionally sipping from his glass and humming softly as he pulled the chair where he wanted it. Vortex stayed in the position he had been left in -- moving without officer approval? _Perish the fragging thought!_ \-- with his chin tilted up and aft on his heels. 

That didn’t stop his visor from tracking Overlord’s shape even though he remained staring forward. It was difficult to see exactly, but he followed the towering mecha’s free hand as it went up to one massive shoulder and unlatched a panel. There had to be a compartment of some kind behind it, because massive fingers rummaged inside for a second. They came out holding something small he couldn’t quite make out. Then the hand descended into his actual field of vision.

Only months of training prevented the Combaticon from bolting out of the room. “ **No!** ”

“Be silent until spoken to, Vortex,” he was gently reminded, and that made it all worse because he slagging well _obeyed_. He had to obey, he had to, but oh frag, oh frag, oh please Primus _no._

Instead of running away as fast as physically possible, Vortex merely gave a half-stifled shriek and flinched wildly as Overlord’s hand went to the empty chair seat and deposited its cargo there. Shaking violently, the ‘copter tried to retreat on knees that were as good as welded to the spots they’d been set in. All his vent slats flared as wide as they could go, rattling terribly while they sucked in and expelled air in erratic gusts that were doing nothing to cool his suddenly frenzied systems.

The terrified Combaticon locked his visor on the ground and twisted his upper body from side to side, attempting to keep the black cube on the chair out of even his peripheral vision. 

“Vortex,” Overlord chided, and the ‘copter stopped. 

His vocalizer clicked and panted harshly, making weird moaning sounds of distress. He had to obey, he _had to_. In one jerking movement, Vortex tore himself back into the position Overlord had put him in before, like a spring coiling back into shape. 

The triple-changer bent and hooked one finger into Vortex’s right helm-vent, using it to tip the Combaticon’s head down until the visor couldn’t avoid looking directly at the object on the chair. Such a small thing to inspire such a rampaging panic. “I think,” Overlord said in a conversational tone, “that you missed something, back when we were having our little chat about the things I had promised you. Can you remember which promise of mine you forgot to list?”

Vortex’s vocalizer kept resetting futilely, spitting static and binary clicks that translated into a stream of _‘no no no.’_ This was unreal. It was a nightmare. It was a recharge memory-echo, a flux of stressed processors that hadn’t defragmented properly in too long. This simply could not be happening. After spending all this time and effort, Overlord wouldn’t just -- would he?

He couldn’t remove his gaze from the cube. He couldn’t even offline his visor. A sick sense of terror filled him, a conviction that if he looked away for even a split second, the cube would leap upon him. Correction, the cube-shaped box would do it. A small, very cozy box, big enough to contain one spark and keep it alive, slotted into statis detention, for as long as the suspension sentence lasted. A spark-box. The Box. 

“Th-that -- that I -- s-sir -- that. N-no.” He couldn’t think. He couldn’t speak. Vortex’s mind clogged, too many emotions and thoughts draining through mental hands that shook as badly as his body did. His logic hubs were unable to process anything but the likelihood of scenarios involving sensory deprivation and endless awareness that he was trapped. Logic looked at the Box in front of him and the mecha who’d set it there, and the answer was that those scenarios were pretty likely.

It was the perpetual fear that haunted the back of his mind, and now it wasn’t a memory. He was afraid. Frag that -- Vortex was _terrified_ , because it was _right there_. Returning to the Box was no longer just a threat held over his head. It was a real possibility, edging on about to occur.

“Oh, Vortex,” Overlord said, amusement pouring through the white noise filling his audios, “I’m sure you can remember if you just think about it. I’ve provided enough of a hint, don’t you think?”

He had been asked a question, and there was still a fragment of himself flailing in the panic that deemed orders important. It yanked the relevant memory files to the forefront of his mind and practically hijacked his vocalizer to answer, stuttering static and all. Which only got worse as Vortex realized which promise he’d neglected to list.

“You p-p-prom-mised, sir, that -- th-that I’d ri-rip out my…my own spark-ch-chamber if -- if you. If you. Ordered. M-me to. Sir.”

The promise constricted the Combaticon’s spark into a tight ball of terrified energy as he uttered it. His spark coiled tighter yet as he watched Overlord nod, smiling, and reach towards the cube. Big fingers tapped a pattern on its left side, and the artifact hissed softly. The metal surface begun sliding and folding, emitting a mechanical whine that pitched higher in a familiar way. Even between his harsh, panting breaths, Vortex could hear it, and he whimpered loudly as it brought back memories full of visceral terror.

He distantly noted he hadn’t known the spark-box had been the source of the noise. The last time his spark had been pushed into one of these devices, he had been forcibly restrained on a table with a spark extractor waiting at the ready as Shockwave’s minions started cutting open his chest plating with surgical lasers. He’d been driven unconscious before the extractor began forcing open his spark chamber. He hadn’t seen more than a glimpse of the Box before going under, and it hadn’t looked like _this_. Maybe it just hadn’t been activated yet when he’d seen it.

Now the box was rearranged itself into something that resembled his own spark chamber, and he wished he was anywhere but here, seeing it happen. Only the front irised open, but thin metal tendrils opened outward towards him, and those he _did_ recognize. The spark extractor had held a set of those at the ready, up above the prying tools it’d wielded on his spark chamber. The spark-box’s array blossomed open in welcome. _’Long time no see, Vortex. Come on in.’_

In his paralyzed-with-terror state of mind, Vortex didn’t notice there was a strange keening noise in the background until it’d been going on for a while. It took him well over a minute realize he was the one making it. He couldn’t stop himself. He was also shaking his helm in convulsive motions; denial breaking the training and the conditioning correcting him, over and over again.

“Well?”

The question drenched the Combaticon like a bucket of liquid nitrogen, and he hiccupped and coughed as it broke the shock. His head jerked up to look into his officer’s expectant face, and something collapsed into sobs of defenseless fear inside him. It came out of his throat in a thin voice. “D-don’t order me to -- to d-do that, Overlord s-sir.”

“Excuse me?” Overlord’s optics widened in comical exaggeration. “Why, I thought for a second I heard a rather insubordinate demand made of a superior officer,” the triple-changer said, stepping back to walk behind the kneeling mecha. “Which, of course, would be ludicrous. You would never do such a thing, or so you’ve sworn. I must be hearing things.”

Once behind Vortex, the triple-changer bent and placed his hands on the Combaticon’s bowed shoulders. He lowered his head to speak into the smaller mecha’s audio. “What was that small piece of information I gifted you? About my promises. Do tell me.”

Vortex heaved, his whole body shuddering as it failed to escape itself, but then he slumped. He made a quiet sound between a whimper and a groan before forcing his vocalizer to answer. “You said…you t-told me th-that you -- that you always k-keep your promises. Overlord. Sir.” He made the sound again and mouthed silent pleas behind his mask. 

“ **Very** good, Vortex. Now,” and the terrified ‘copter flinched at the friendly pat on his shoulders, “I assume that the last time you found yourself intimately acquainted with this device, you were not in the, ahem,” Overlord’s smirk was more heard than seen, “right frame of mind to take note of the steps required for a successful spark transplant. Not to worry! I’ll do you the favor of walking you through them. You won’t be able to do the last steps yourself, but I’m more than willing to assist.”

Vortex’s vocalizer started keening again. This was really happening. He was being put back into the Box. He was being ordered to put himself in, and he was going to _do_ it. He was being made to be an active participant in his own spark extraction.

“Let’s begin, shall we? Open up.”

Frag him! Frag _him_! Vortex couldn’t be ordered to do this! There was a limit -- there _had_ to be a limit, but he knew better. He’d tortured for fun and for information, and he knew that when he was given free rein, he took every bit of advantage of that freedom. Overlord had total dominion here, and Vortex had absolutely no way to stop him.

His hands shook so fiercely he could only fumble at his own chest in clumsy, whimpering obedience. It took him a long while to get the plating unlatched, and he had to stop and make soft, desperate sounds of pleading when his fingers found the open seam. Overlord’s jovial voice rode over his frantic noises.

“Good! Now, I’m sure you know your way around a spark-chamber?” Vortex’s miserable nod got a hearty laugh. “Of course you do. Unspool the containment chamber’s secondary coolant feeds and connect them here and here.” The triple-changer came around to his side so he could point at the connection points inside the spark-box. He was still holding his drink like this was some sort of party.

Vortex’s vocalizer clicked and burred, but he obeyed. Primus help him, he obeyed. He’d gone through the Pit, only to end up in the Box after surrendering. He literally could not win against the combination of the conditioning and the loyalty program, but Overlord wanted to make him suffer even in defeat. The universe wasn’t fair, but this -- this just --

“Tsk. You seem to be having some motor control issues. Good thing you won’t be using that body much longer, hmm? Shh, shh. Do cease making that noise, Vortex. It’s quite disquieting hearing an experienced soldier make such sounds. Ah, there now. Hold that connector there, and slide the secondary and tertiary fuel lines of your spark-chamber into those sockets. Can you see? Yes, those ones.”

“Please.”

The tiny voice could have been easily ignored, just one more pathetic sound lost under Overlord’s merry instructions, but the triple-changer paused. He turned a bit to look into the side of the Combaticon’s visor. Vortex himself hadn’t been permitted to move, so he continued staring straight ahead even as the officer thoughtfully said, “I don’t recall granting you permission to speak.”

And even though his chest was peeled open and his chamber half-prepped to lose the spark it contained, Vortex’s mind wailed as the pain of disobedience bit deep. He couldn’t do this, he _couldn’t_ \--

He did anyway, and hated himself for it. “Please, sir, please don’t make me do it, sir, please!” He felt far more desperation than an order for silence could contain, no matter how the conditioning slashed at him. His code rebelled, trying to choke the words, and shut-down warnings from the loyalty software blared across his processors. Yet the words simply kept tumbling from his vocalizer, because _he couldn’t go back_. “Please, sir, don’t make me go in the Box again! I -- you keep your promises, I swear I understand it, I swear! I will never forget it again, ever. You keep your promises, I understand. I won’t t-try and stop you, please, I won’t, I’ll be good a-and obedient and I can’t go back in the Box, I just can’t. Please, Overlord sir, please don’t make me! I’ll do anything. I -- I -- please, I -- I’m grateful for -- for everything, please take me back. I -- I’ll remember all of it, everything you want me to -- ”

“I,” Overlord said, cutting him off, “don’t think you are worth the trouble.” Vortex gasped air in, vents whistling shrieks, shaking his head against the pounding not-pain of multiple error warnings and the conditioning punishing him for daring to speak, but a raised hand stalled the Combaticon’s vocalizer. “Megatron sent you to me because your usefulness was already outweighed by your lack of discipline, but instead of seizing this as the opportunity it was, you wasted it, Vortex. You wasted your chance.” The officer explained it as if it were all completely reasonable, voice laying out the facts like they were obvious. “It is my duty as a duly appointed officer set over this attempt at redemption to determine the likelihood of success for this venture. My judgment is that you have wasted enough of my and Lord Megatron’s time, and far too much of the Empire’s resources. You have not made the cut.”

His voice turned soothing. “Your frame itself will repay some of the value lost. I believe that Shockwave has considered refurbishing it to install another spark into, as the difficulty in acquiring spare parts nowadays is high. Finding a spark strong enough to bond to an established combiner team will be more difficult, but I suppose you might find some pride in being able to help the war effort one last time.”

All the while Overlord spoke, Vortex hiccupped and panted, body shuddering in waves of rattling shivers. His vents opened and closed, fans whirring at full power as he listened to the logic behind his own sentencing. He was so screwed. He was utterly fragged. More of the pitiful noises Overlord had complained of leaked out of his vocalizer in a dribbling trail of despair. His visor followed Overlord’s fingertips as the triple-changer turned to poking the mechanism. A strange lurch in his fuel-pump signaled the activation of a new line, hardly ever used. 

Visor fascinated and terrified, he watched the thin lines that connected his chest to the horrid artifact before him thrum to the beat of his fuel pump. The spark-box began humming with energy. His energy. 

And he could not.

Stop.

It.

.  
.  
.  
.  
.


	18. Chapter 18

**0 0 Part Eighteen 0 0**

 

Spark-boxes were deceptively complicated pieces of equipment, for all the simplicity of the name. The name implied the thing to be just a box. _The_ Box, for the unlucky mecha sentenced to the suspended animation of one. There were real reasons why Shockwave had an entire clinic for the Detention Centres. It took a specialist to use the equipment folded up inside a spark-box.

Not usually because the equipment itself was difficult to use, but because it was difficult to use on an unwilling subject. Spark extractors had come into play, for instance, when the Combaticons had originally been sentenced. Thrashing, hysterical subjects had the power to keep their spark chambers closed against the relatively delicate equipment tucked into a spark-box. Starscream’s clever fingers, of course, had made short work of the spark-boxes. He’d slipped the encased sparks right out of their boxes and made off with them, a trick only trained, experienced scientists should have been able to pull off.

Or a well-read, demonically intelligent mecha. If a Decepticon was willing to devote enough time to research to it, operating a spark-box became easy -- within the physical limitations, that was. Struggling subjects were still a problem. Operating the equipment while restraining such a subject wasn’t easy. However, it was even less so for a heavy warbuild, with fingers much larger than the ones such equipment was intended for.

Fortunately, Overlord’s intended subject wasn’t struggling. That made this procedure _so_ much easier.

That wasn’t why he’d brought Vortex to this point, but it served nicely. Overlord had listed the spark-box among the items he had requested of Shockwave early on solely because it had been attached to the psychological profile of the Combaticon combiner team. They might as well have a note reading _‘emotionally compromised’_ stapled to their forehelms as far as this little item was concerned.

Wonderfully compromising indeed, but also impractical. The spark-box required too much preparation for convenient use, and the type of conditioning Overlord had already planned for at the very beginning would have required that it be used frequently. That wouldn’t have worked out well. Opening and closing a spark chamber frequently was fine, except when it came to doing it by force. The emotional, psychological, and physical trauma that came with repeatedly forcing such things would have caused an array of medical issues he had no desire to deal with. Not to mention that having to pin down and open up the ‘copter forcibly would have been entertaining at first but probably terribly tedious after the hundredth time.

These disadvantages had led him to improvise a different nightmare environment for the Combaticon’s gestalt-links, and that’s when the plastic had come in. Sensory deprivation and isolation in the spark-box would have worked wonders to melt the rotary mecha’s resolve into an oily puddle -- and probably done the job faster, in retrospect -- but the triple-changer had decided to try a more practical solution. The plastic had sufficed quite well, really, and had kept Vortex in physical health even as his code-deep distress had grown out of control inside it. It was obvious, now more than ever, that the plastic had been effective on its own.

Overlord had kept the spark-box nevertheless, just in case. He did like collecting things in case he needed them later, and a spark-box was a specialized piece of equipment. If Shockwave didn’t request it be returned, he had every intention of keeping it. The massive officer had studied the complex mechanism out of purely academic interest, but then he’d set it aside. It’d made a decorative prop for his datapads for the last six months.

How nice that he’d kept it. He was positively happy it was on hand right now.

Vortex? Not so happy.

The officer daintily tapped the right code to activate a sequence of internal switches. The expanding petals locked in place like some ghoulish flower, ready for the extraction, and Overlord unspooled the power and data cables. Tsk, shame on him. It seemed that he’d packed them away carelessly the last time he’d opened the device up; the cables were twisted together. That just wouldn’t do. He took his time untangling them and draping them over the front of the chair right before the shivering mecha they were soon to be plugged into.

While he worked, Overlord watched the kneeling Combaticon’s reactions from his peripheral vision. It took real effort not to smile widely.

Vortex was breaking apart.

Whatever splinter of rebellion the ‘copter had hidden away that’d allowed him to run away was now crushed to a fine powder. In all honesty, the conditioning had likely eroded Vortex’s willpower to dust before the Combaticon had even entered the building today. Making the link between the conditioning and the loyalty program had simply pulverized whatever ghost of hope had remained. Overlord was confident the software partnering had clicked into place solidly. Together, they would work in a devastatingly effective pair that he predicted the stupid ‘copter folding before like holographic house of cards. More behavioral adjustment was still in order to fine-tune the results, but the conditioning had taken perhaps even better than anticipated.

The plain truth was that it worked, and they both knew it. Vortex had been defeated, floored, and kicked repeatedly while he was down by nothing but his own software, well before Overlord even stood up from the chair.

Which was precisely what made this such a gratifying moment.

Everything else leading up to this moment had been more or less enjoyable and certainly entertaining, but only as a by-product of the required process. Overlord was a sadist, but he’d taken his pleasure in keeping the ‘copter informed of how he’d been training the impertinent glitch to heel. Smashing the Combaticon down and grinding him under his foot this way was totally unnecessary. Taunting and reducing Vortex to whimpers and pleas was cruel enough, but using the box...

“Well, I think we are almost done here,” the triple-changer murmured, barely loud enough for Vortex to hear him. He kept his voice low enough that it sounded like he was talking to himself distractedly, not saying it for the fun of hearing stressed systems rev in panic.

Using the box was recreational. It was the single bit of self-indulgent pleasure Overlord had decided to treat himself to the moment he’d realized Vortex had spited his will. It was delightful to reserve that slice of pure enjoyment for himself. He’d planned out how to make the suffering last, and he did so love to sculpt internal pain. Agonized writhing was much harder to express when fear, not physical stimulation, caused it.

The Combaticon’s escape had to be paid for. Oh, it’d served a purpose in the end, but defying him? That, Overlord would not allow. That, Vortex had to not just regret, but despair, repent, and completely, utterly debase himself over while begging pardon for his transgressions.

Overlord intended to make Vortex _crawl_. Hit the ground on hands and knees, then actively search for a way to lower himself further. The officer was owed it, after all. _Vortex_ owed it to him, and Overlord was going to ensure the little ‘copter recognized the debt. By the time Overlord finished with him, Vortex would be apologizing for existing and frantically trying to make up for that fact. The officer wouldn’t have to do anything, after a while. Vortex was well on his way to becoming his own judge, jury, and punishment.

Of course, the indulgence also served the extra purpose of demonstrating to the ‘copter that there could _always_ be a worse punishment. No matter how deep in the Pit the Combaticon thought he’d sunk, Overlord could push him deeper. And he would. The spark-box was such a marvelous toy for that purpose.

The triple-changer chuckled to himself and reached in to tap-tap gently on the closed spark chamber of the trembling mecha. “I’d say it’s about time you opened up, Vortex.”

Neither mask nor visor could cover the way Vortex silently screamed. From the way the rotary frame jolted in place, he’d had to shut down an automatic response. It hadn’t been a command, not quite, and Overlord could practically hear the way the ‘copter fought off instant obedience by clawing after that bit of leeway.

This time, Overlord did allow himself a smile. Another of those deliciously helpless noises leaked out of the Combaticon’s vocalizer. They both knew that kneejerk reaction had been one of unconditional obedience to a command from an officer. All Overlord had to do was rephrase it as an actual order, and Vortex’s machine code would pop his spark chamber open right on cue.

Vortex would regret running away so very much. Overlord wanted him to ponder just how much he regretted it as he entered the quietness of the spark-box. There would be nothing in there to distract the ‘copter but nonstop thought and emotion. There were no physical sensations to get in the way, and no way to measure how long the punishment would last. Vortex would have all the time he desperately didn’t want in order to think about the innate idiocy of defying Overlord.

The officer would graciously permit him out just long enough to hear all about any epiphanies and apologies...and then send him back inside.

“Well? I am waiting, Vortex,” the massive officer said, letting his power plant purr his pleasure as he gave another not-quite-order for that frantic brain module inside Vortex’s head to tear itself apart over.

Rotor blades shook violently, rattling against the floor, and small, pathetic sounds pattered down in a rain of misery, but piling up a few vague suggestions was apparently enough for the Combaticon’s new software restrictions. The outermost petals began peeling away from the spark chamber in jerks, as if the hinges were caked with rust -- or like Vortex was fighting every fraction of the way.

Overlord watched intently as the first traces of light appeared. The Combaticon’s spark served to illuminate the inner components of the spark-box, and Vortex began whimpering steadily. Not exactly words, because he was _such_ an obedient mecha now, but Overlord’s pleased purr rumbled deeply as the ‘copter did his level best to beg mercy in tiny, frightened noises like a cornered glitchmouse. The more his spark light revealed, the more desperate Vortex’s darling bitty noises became. It was almost cute how easily he broke into a sniveling pile when a few switches were flipped. Start feeding his power and fuel into the thing, and Vortex couldn’t surrender fast enough.

Too late, however. How sad for his dearly departed dignity that he hadn’t figured out that resistance only motivated Overlord to smash him further.

Unlike a real spark chamber, the back wall of the spark-box wasn’t a smooth metallic surface cupping the spark within. The spark-box was lined with thin, pulsing tubes, wires, and aperture valves, all designed to mimic a healthy (if statis-locked) body via electrical input and supplying inert energon to nurture the spark. The triple-changer wondered, looking at the bloom of wires as the extraction began, if Vortex could see just how alive it looked. The pattern of pulsing circuitry on the inside beat to the rhythm of the Combaticon’s fuel pump, which made it seem as alive as the ‘copter was. It yawned open, ready to swallow the sphere of light trembling inside Vortex, and the extractor looked like the maw of some strange technimal from the core of Cybertron.

He concluded the rotary mecha probably didn’t have the wits to make that sort of parallel anymore, even if Vortex could see the spark-box. He couldn’t, judging by how the red visor was turned off. Overlord chuckled as the kneeling mecha’s helm shook in continuous _’no no nonononono’_ denial of reality. The motions were futile. This was really happening, and the triple-changer was so enjoying the show.

“Tsk-tsk. Vortex, **do** pay attention. Missing your last moments with a sensor network would be a waste, hmm?” The visor snapped online, flickering and dull, but obedient. Overlord chuckled again, drinking in the way the light bounced back from the spark-box onto the wide visor. Vortex’s chamber was now half-open, and the white pinpricks reflected onto his visor were becoming inexorably larger as more petals peeled away despite how hard he must have been fighting.

Yes, the stubborn mecha had to witness this. Overlord would make sure this moment got carved into the Combaticon’s memory. Every second of --

_Ping._

Overlord’s optics reset once in surprise before narrowing in annoyance. Of all the times to call. He refused the commlink request from the base’s secure channel and focused once again on the quivering pile of unhinged metal before him. Vortex’s vents were heaving in huge gulps of air that did absolutely nothing; it was panted back out again full of noises so primal they didn’t even approach words anymore.

“If you believe in Primus, now would be a good time to make peace with him,” the triple-changer murmured, just to hear those sounds turn into an agonized creel of mechanical terror. “Two more switches,” his hand hovered over the spark-box’s teensy control panel like a visual aid, “and he’ll be the only one able to hear you. Perhaps prayer will bring you comfort during the long, long, **long** prison sentence ahead of you. Who knows?” He smiled kindly down at the wide visor turned up toward him. “Perhaps faith will make you a better mecha. Loyalty to the Decepticon Cause has failed, and you’ve certainly spurned **my** efforts.”

Vortex dearly wanted to deny that. Look at that head shake. Didn’t he just want to speak in his own defense, mm, yes. Too bad, so sad.

_Ping-ping. Ping._

The triple-changer considered ignoring the call once again, but the code prefix identified the call source as Earth, which meant there was a high chance it was someone from High Command calling. Possibly the Supreme Commander himself. An opportunity to verbally spar with Megatron was not to be passed up.

Right. He had to take the blasted call, just in case. If it wasn’t Megatron, he could always arrange a future meeting with his caller to have a short fist-to-face chat regarding rudeness and interruption of an officer’s work.

“Well, well. It seems that you’ll have to excuse me for a minute,” the larger Decepticon huffed irritably. He paused when the wavering EM field feebly struggling under his own stronger field perked up. Aww, was that a pinch of relief the ‘copter felt? That was really cute. Vortex actually thought there was some hope.

Overlord crushed it as ruthlessly as he did petrorabbits under his treads. He could almost feel the _crunch_. “I trust you will stay put until I return, although it would be helpful if you began transmitting your schematics. There should be an update notice on your HUD by now. Do you see it?” He bent down to pause the extractor. It froze with Vortex’s spark half-scooped into its spindly embrace. Vortex shuddered but nodded wretchedly. “Download the update and let it install. Run the program when it’s finished, won’t you? It will save time, and I’d, hmm, **appreciate** that.”

The relief he had felt tingle across the Combaticon’s EM field dissolved into horror, then drowned in numb fear so deep Vortex seemed to collapse in on himself. Holding onto hope for this long was tragic. It must have hurt so much to have it stripped away.

The triple-changer smirked. Perfect.

He left the room at a fast pace, wanting to get this over as quick as possible. Vortex stayed behind, of course, obedient and practically melting into a gooey puddle of terror and regret as the spark-box happily started conforming to his body. The ‘copter would probably feel the thing start to become an extension of his spark chamber. Then it’d _become_ his spark chamber, and then pretty soon Vortex wouldn’t feel anything else at all. Overlord rather wanted to see that happen.

His only truly personal moment of enjoyment in this project was being _delayed_ by this call. If it wasn’t Megatron, he’d take note of whomever it was before hanging up immediately to return to tormenting his little toy. The _cheek_ some mecha had.

It didn’t take long to reach the room he’d claimed, where he pulled a chair toward the communication console and patched the call through. He threw a dry, “Overlord here,” at the booting screen.

His annoyance gave way to interest when his passcodes cleared and the video opened. A video call from -- well, this was unexpected. Understandable, however, now that he thought about it.

“This is Onslaught, from Earth base.” The mask and visor made the strategist very hard to read without the nonverbal clues given off by an EM field, but the tension of the mecha’s frame betrayed him. Overlord could tell the Combaticon leader was quite angry. Or, perhaps, the anger hid anxiety.

Interesting timing. Of all the times Vortex’s direct superior officer could have chosen to call, he chose right now. Just how closely did the gestalt merge bind a combiner team’s sparks?

This had just become a vidcall worth taking. Overlord was intrigued.

“Onslaught,” the triple-changer said, settling more comfortably into the chair with a slight nod of his helm at the screen. It was a gesture of acknowledgement, but not respect. “I must say that you’ve found me at a rather... **busy** time. I’d appreciate conciseness.”

If the Combaticon leader stiffened any further, his cannons would start vibrating from the tension. His voice held every coldly formal tone possible. “I will get to the point then. My unit has been receiving, as of late, certain readings through the gestalt connection that imply Vortex has been compromised. I require an update on his current general status.”

Anger, yes, over having to politely go through proper channels, but there was real concern lurking under the icily formal words. Overlord would have been tempted to laugh in the mecha’s face if the interruption hadn’t mildly bothered him.

Instead, he merely smiled, returning empty polite gesture for equally empty polite words. “I believe Vortex’s status is functional,” he answered blandly. Unlike the mecha on the screen, Overlord didn’t need to beat his subordinates to break them to heel. Truly, the helicopter’s physical status was healthy and unharmed.

“Perhaps he is a bit stressed,” he added after a second’s pause, smile ticking up at the corners with genuine amusement at the vast understatement.

Onslaught’s frame tensed further at the implied laughter at his expense. Overlord watched, highly entertained, as the visor flashed in anger. “With all due **respect** , I find that hard to believe. I’d like to check personally.” The Combaticon drew in a deep in-vent to damp down his temper and added a grudging explanation for his borderline disrespect. “Given that mecha outside of the gestaltbond might not have a perfect grasp on what might be considered compromising for the unit. Of course.”

The mecha was going to break something bending his pride that way. Overlord casually inspected the back of one hand and shook his head with a regretful _’tsk_.’ Oh, look at his busy schedule. Such a _shame_ he couldn’t fit in the request at this point in time. That half-full glass of high-grade he’d left on the end of the desk obviously required his full attention right now. He stretched to reach it and grunted in satisfaction when he sat back in his seat once it’d been retrieved. It took a lot of energon to keep a triple-changer fueled, especially when he still had a hangover from the last binge.

A sip, and he regarded the screen as if just remembering it was there. “I’m afraid that would inconvenient at the moment. Perhaps if you call back later, I could have an update ready.” The visor narrowed in an attempt at looking intimidating. It failed. Overlord had regularly faced off against Megatron in the gladiatorial arena. Onslaught’s intimidation tactics needed work. “I **did** send a detailed description of the disciplinary procedures I’m employing on your unruly gestaltmate to General Shockwave. I’ve no doubt he’d be pleased to forward you a copy, should you ask for one.”

Overlord was quite sure, if there was any truth to the rumors regarding the power balance on Earth, that Onslaught would prefer to eat his own cannon barrels rather than ask Shockwave for anything. There was the requisite aft-kissing that happened due to being an officer directly under Megatron’s command, and then there was buffing the skidplate of the officer who’d won the political power game over this mecha. Onslaught wasn’t going to swallow his pride enough to approach Shockwave asking for _anything_.

Not that Onslaught had any interest in reading reports, judging by the Combaticon’s reaction. "As his commander, I have the right to know his condition. You **will** comply with my request,” more like a poorly dressed up demand, “or I will complain directly to Lord Megatron himself!"

Oh, Onslaught had _not_ just gone there.

Oh, he totally had. With Overlord, of all mecha, who had half a dozen schemes percolating this very moment to eventually bring about the ultimate fight between himself and the Decepticon Supreme Commander. And Onslaught thought his puny threat would frighten _Overlord_? Did the Combaticon have no idea of who he was? Did the mecha think himself somehow above the triple-changer?

Oh, it was _on_.

“Lord Megatron himself?” sneered Overlord, upper lip curling. “Allow me to remind you that **Lord Megatron himself** requested I take responsibility for your team member. **Lord Megatron himself** authorized his transference to this facility under my command. **Lord Megatron himself** approved the usage or any and all means to mete out proper discipline to your team member. And why was that?” His question was cloyingly sweet, a stream of melted sugar poured down Onslaught’s fuel intakes to choke the Combaticon. “Hmmm? There was a reason, wasn’t there? Dear me, what was it? Refresh my memory, Onslaught. I seem to remember it was because -- ah, **yes**.” Overlord’s optics narrowed in gloating satisfaction even as his smile spread wide. His powerplant purred richly under every vicious word. “Because you failed to curb his behavior. I believe that was the reason listed on my preliminary briefing, wasn’t it? _Tsk_. A commander who failed to command is hardly a commander at all, wouldn’t you say? What a group of losers you lead if retaining you as the ranking Decepticon was the best choice.”

Overlord tilted his head a bit to the side and shook his head, mock-regretful. “An official reprimand on file, a disciplinary transfer done due to your own lack of control over your gestalt -- and here you are ready to bring your failure up with **Lord Megatron himself** again. Why, go ahead.” He smirked slowly, letting it really sink in. “I’m hardly one to stand in the way of blatant suicidal idiocy, after all.”

His thoughtful voice never rose beyond a conversational tone. It still turned Onslaught’s pride into a squealing technimal stranded on a busy freeway. Every calculated word flattened it a little more while it futilely tried to evade. Escape couldn’t happen, however, and not even a mask and visor could conceal how Onslaught deflated.

“I fully, ahem, endorse Lord Megatron’s decision.” After months of working with his own Combaticon pet project, Overlord recognized that pause for what it was. Such a complicated thing to work around, the loyalty software was. “However,” Onslaught squared his shoulders, refusing to let them slump, “I do need to point out that it is my duty to ensure the gestalt as a whole remains functional, something I cannot confirm until I see Vortex. Presumed failures or not -- “

“Now, now.” Overlord studied the high-grade in his glass. “‘Presumed’? You wouldn’t be casting doubt on the official reprimand given to you by Lord Megatron, now would you?”

The Combaticon twitched visibly. Shockwave and Starscream had done an excellent job with that loyalty software. Overlord’s compliments to them.

“...no, of course not.”

Because it wasn’t an exploited weakness unless Overlord could stick a knife in and _twist_. “I thought not,” he said, and his smile was angelic. He made a _’go on’_ gesture. “Anyway, you were saying something about your abject failure in relation to Vortex?”

It was possible Onslaught hated Shockwave more than Overlord, but it was difficult to tell at the moment. The Combaticon leader glared through the screen and gritted out, “The functionality of Bruticus takes precedent before everything else in regards to my gestalt in the optics of Lord Megatron. **Including** my...failure.” The word was spat. “I assume you are aware of this.”

Overlord’s optics narrowed. The arrogance some mecha had astonished him. Was Onslaught implying that he would commit such an amateur mistake as incapacitating his pet project unintentionally? Vortex was as ready for battle as ever. Although he would likely be little use outside of it and probably collapse in a gibbering pile the second direct orders ceased.

It could be an interesting test, having this fool poking his head around to see what was happening with the ‘copter. He had to admit to curiosity on the reach of the gestalt-bonds, and right now Overlord was disposed to drive Onslaught’s lack of power home. Yes, he could use this call for the training, if only to test the solidity of the software consolidation in Vortex’s brain module. According to gestalt theory, the gestalt came before all, putting Onslaught at the top of Vortex’s authority hierarchy. However, post-conditioning and software modification, that should have changed. The highest ranking Decepticon officer should take precedence over the gestalt commander.

The idea had merit. Gestalt-bonds were difficult things to predict, at times, and here an opportunity to conduct a test run had fallen right into Overlord’s lap. How fortuitous.

“Yes, I have been informed of the importance of your unit’s combined form to the war effort.” He pointedly didn’t mention how the individual components of the team were seen as mostly nuisances. Onslaught knew exactly what he hadn’t said, he was sure. “I have not, however, been briefed on the necessity of direct observation done by you. I believe either General Shockwave or Lord Megatron would have informed me if I were to be appointed your, ah, **mentor**. While I don’t doubt you could use the experience,” the clenched fists weren’t visible in the video pickup, but the tension shaking Onslaught’s arms gave them away, “it seems unlikely that you would be tasked to follow my work under any other circumstances. My record with unruly soldiers does far outstrip your own, after all.”

And look at those turrets sag. This was a mecha who _knew_ just how little bite there was to his bark. “I am merely **asking** for a few minutes to speak with Vortex to confirm his status. The contradiction between your status report and the gestalt-bond is...disturbing my team.”

In other words, the Combaticons were becoming agitated. Evidence of how deep the gestalt-bonds ran? Overlord did eventually want to see how the gestalt merges affected the rest of the team. Would the warping of Vortex’s deep code transfer wholesale, or would it alienate him from the rest?

He leaned forward to casually rest an arm on the computer console. Curiosity was no reason to make this easy for the upstart officer. “I find it interesting that you think it somehow my responsibility to supply reassurance. I would think, considering what I have heard of your subordinates, that awareness of consequences for their actions could only benefit their overall behavior. **Asking** my cooperation in soothing them...an odd request, don’t you think?” He drummed his fingers on the console, optics thoughtful. “I fail to see why I’d make time in my schedule for this, especially at the moment, when such a thing falls far below ongoing priorities.”

“Even so, Onslaught,” the triple-changer said, cutting off the rebuke that was about to be spat through the screen at his callous dismissal, “I do believe it’s inspirational for an officer to have such concern for his subordinates’ well-being. Such **loyalty** , one might say.”

Overlord’s engine purred softly, and he smiled as the Combaticon go rigid with subdued anger at the unsubtle dig. Yes, such an accessible sore to poke at once mecha knew where they stood with this quirky team of jumped-up grunts. And Overlord? He knew exactly where he stood.

With his foot on Onslaught’s neck. “I think it is praiseworthy attitude, do you not?” he asked in all earnestness, putting a little more weight on that vulnerable point.

It could be felt, oh yes. Painful and heavy, bearing down to force Onslaught to accept the backhanded compliment and implied insult in one. “Yes.” The Combaticon’s tone of voice could have frozen energon solid. However, a Decepticon accepted compliments from a superior officer _graciously_. Overlord could have sworn he heard teeth squeal behind that mask before Onslaught managed, “Thank you.”

He tilted his helm and chuckled softly. “Well, in light of that, I suppose I might revise my schedule slightly.” The burden of a disciplinary officer weighed so heavily upon him, but he could do this one _favor_ for the Combaticon team leader.

He paused artfully, expectantly, and Onslaught swallowed his pride almost visibly. “I’d...appreciate that.”

For a second, Overlord wondered if the mecha’s back hydraulics would sprain from trying to hold back the rage. Surely it would burst the dam and swamp his vocalizer in an enraged tirade, and then Overlord would have the pleasure of cutting Onslaught’s overweening pride off at the knees again.

He waited. The Combaticon smoldered, temper burning behind his visor and simmering in a cloud around him. The triple-changer could almost see it, it was that strong. But it didn’t snap.

Really, Onslaught’s self-control could be admirable. Overlord just had to find his breaking point, now.

“Very well,” the officer said with a nod as he redirected the call. “Stand by while I patch the video feed from Vortex’s current location. Audio exchanges will have to be routed through my own array. I’m afraid the communication network in this base is quite, ah, antiquated. The feed may take awhile to clear.”

Onslaught stiffly nodded in turn. The video stuttered and paused as Overlord took remote control of the connection, rerouting it to the ‘guest’ room and letting it stay in stand-by while he got up to return to the room himself. The triple-changer made his way back to the rotary mecha, who, by now, was likely well on his way towards having a second spark chamber. The box must have downloaded his specs by now and started configuring fully to his design.

The massive Decepticon’s pace sped up even as he slowed down the video feed’s connection process. He wanted to arrive at Vortex’s side before the patch-through cleared on Onslaught’s end.

Would this so-called ‘team leader’ realize, without seeing evidence first, that the noises he heard came from one of his own mecha? Would he recognize in them the terror of the spark-box even before he saw it? Would he _feel_ Vortex’s fear? Would he feel it himself?

Gestalts were fascinating, really. The psychological studies to go with the physical changes had been bypassed in order to expedite bringing gestalts to the battlefield. Personality bleed had been noticed, but no one was certain if the bleed-over from one combiner unit member to another was due to sudden unavoidable lifestyle circumstances or the use of the technology itself. Overlord wondered if he should alert Shockwave to the opportunity to study how Vortex’s new coding might impact the other members of the Combaticons.

When he reached the room, the spark-box’s first-stage configuration process was, as expected, complete. Vortex remained exactly the same as when he’d left: an embarrassment to the Decepticon ranks, half catatonic with fear, chirping in binary and sobbing as his ventilation systems spun out of control, but still obediently kneeling where ordered down. His hands shook, trying to grab air because the coding refused to allow him to touch the cabling connecting him to the spark-box.

Yes, not much of a change here. Overlord was curious to know if the rotary had enough processor space clear to hear him enter the room. It wasn’t a difficult thing to test, of course. He could find out right now.

This would be interesting. “Has the signal cleared completely?” he asked.

“Not yet.” The voice that came from his speakers was dry. It seemed that Onslaught suspected the old base’s communication systems weren’t entirely to blame for the slow connection.

Just for that, he’d wait a few minutes longer to really grind in who was in control, here. It would also give Onslaught an opportunity to construct a mental version of current events without visual input.

Vortex helpfully supplied the audio input. His reaction was pretty much what the triple-changer had expected. Yes, Vortex would still require some polish after he’d been broken properly to heel. A well-trained soldier shouldn’t screech like that for anything. He’d have to address the helicopter’s tendency towards vocalizing in stress situations.

The smaller Decepticon started twisting where he knelt, frantic to see the source of his commander’s voice. His hands flailed, trying to rip at the wires connecting spark-box and spark chamber but not managing to touch either one, as if hands and wires were opposite poles in a magnet. It was the most entertaining sight of a mecha going absolutely nowhere that Overlord had ever seen. His orders kept Vortex’s knees to the floor as if they were glued there.

The formless wailing that left the tormented mecha’s vocalizer eventually resolved into words. “I -- **_Onslaught!_** Please, Onslaught! I can’t -- I can’t stop it, I’m gonna go back, he’d gonna make me -- Onslaught, I can’t I can’t I can’t I -- **help me** I can’t go back, I just can’t I can’t I can’t -- “

The nigh-incoherent babbling went on, staticky and interrupted by the panting of over-stressed vents and the mechanical hiccups of hardware trying to reset too fast and too often. Overlord leisurely strode closer to make sure his external pick-up could catch every distressed spill of panic pouring from the ‘copter. He listened intently to his speakers as everything transmitted, and something like a tiny strangled growl came through from the other end. Ah-ha. Onslaught _was_ affected.

He slathered on the sweet insincere concern. “Is the audio coming through clearly? There is so much white noise that I couldn’t understand your last transmission, Onslaught. Please repeat.”

A cough, the clicking of a resetting vocalized and Overlord smothered a snigger. Primus! The mecha was actually going to try to pretend it was indeed a malfunctioning frequency and not possessive rage. This was precious. What a big, obvious weak point to pry open until the mecha cracked.

“The transmission is clear,” said the Combaticon leader, voice rough.

“Good,” said Overlord, perky as anything.

Speechless, possibly offended silence filled the open frequency. The hulking Decepticon snickered quietly to himself and walked around the kneeling ‘copter in order to rest his arms on the back of the chair that held the box. The visor of his pet project followed him: wide, pale, and flickering in time with how the mecha’s whole body shook like tinfoil in a windstorm.

 

_The box (by Shibara)._

 

The helicopter’s EM field was intriguing, because it defied expectations. That alone made this intermission worth the hassle.

When Vortex had entered the room today, the ‘copter hadn’t even tried to cap his emotional responses. It was useless to attempt such a thing with his state of mind in complete upheaval. The rotary mecha was jonesing, but also locked into disarray by coding and terror colliding. Control had been impossible. He’d responded by surrendering and bleakly laying his body and mind at Overlord’s feet.

The officer had been mildly disappointed at that. Trying to resist would have been a futile exercise in restraint, but he would have liked to stomp on it as he had on everything else the ‘copter had tried. But Vortex was simply too far gone to keep himself from broadcasting like a distress beacon. The Combaticon’s electromagnetic field had yielded in total submission beneath the domineering crush of Overlord’s own energy projection.

When he had taken out the spark-box, Overlord had expected fireworks, and he’d gotten them in spades. The energy wavelength had run through all the different spectrums as the ‘copter desperately searched for help of any kind, EM field shooting off every direction. It hadn’t been conscious; it’d been the instinct of a terrified mecha trying to contact a team that could not feel him screaming for help.

Overlord had expected a repeat of that when Onslaught’s voice came through into the room, but no. No, this was different. This wasn’t the terrified explosion of electromagnetic energy he’d felt only minutes ago. Well, it technically still was, but there was also more to it. Vortex wasn’t just trying to contact his team leader.

There was hunger, here. A sense of starvation, almost. When the initial shocked blast from hearing the voice of a gestaltmate had cleared, Overlord felt that field _reaching_ toward him. The ‘copter cowered away from him physically, but that enflamed EM field voluntarily threw itself at his own, attempting to make contact. That was quite a change. Vortex’s energy field had meekly lapped at his own in a pathetic bid for consideration before the spark-box came out, and spiked haphazardly since.

Observing Vortex now, he pondered the extent of the connection within a separated combiner team. He wondered if Onslaught was also unconsciously stretching towards the communication array, just because the voice of his troublesome gestalt-mate could be heard.

What interesting fuel for thought. Overlord made a low-priority note for later reminding himself to request more information from Shockwave regarding the other members of the Bruticus combiner. If Onslaught became so...pliable when Vortex was distressed but inaccessible, Overlord’s work here could be a useful experiment. Shockwave could check how the team on Earth behaved knowing the helicopter’s fate hung over their helms.

“Ons -- Onslaught, please -- ”

Oh, right. Overlord had been caught deep enough in his thoughts that he’d almost forgotten there was a babbling ‘copter in the room clearly committing a breach of protocol.

“Vortex,” chided the triple-changer. He wagged finger. “Is that the proper way to address a superior officer? Not to mention that I distinctly remember not granting you permission to speak.”

The pleading dissolved into weak whining. When he frowned in reproof, Vortex quieted until only the useless clicking of his vocalizer could be heard. Overlord graced him with the smallest of approving nods, and the ‘copter squirmed on his knees, clicking louder.

The speaker on Overlord’s arm clicked, too, another vocalizer far away struggling for control. “Overlord, what...is the...meaning of this?” the Combaticon leader asked, quiet and presumably attempting to sound dangerous.

Overlord was mildly impressed that the mecha could maintain a level tone. If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought the strategist sounded somewhat impatient or bored. The calm was betrayed by muffled hints of static at the end of the sentence, but even so. Apparently the strategist was much more level-headed than the other member of the Combaticons he had become acquainted with.

“This, Onslaught, is me providing the first-hand communication with your subordinate that you requested. As I said before, I’d appreciate it if you confirmed your underling’s, how did you put it? Ah, functional status. Yes, please confirm quickly so Vortex and I can resume our little session, hmm?”

The tone the warlord was using was polite, but both his field and what he had said were intended to drop acid into the desperately clingy electromagnetic waves coming off the rotary. It was aggressive, caustic, and completely intentional on the triple-changer’s part. He tailored his field to repel and remind Vortex that this was only a minute of grace before that one-way ticket to the smelter.

Vortex’s reaction was not what Overlord had anticipated, however.

Instead of flinching and spiking in fear again, the weaker EM field oppressed under him reached even harder. It positively cozied up to the acid burn of Overlord’s energy as if drawing comfort from their proximity. The rotary mecha’s hands were pressed once again on his thighs, trembling but under control, and Vortex’s body cringed away even while every scrap of his energy clung to Overlord.

Could it be just the fact that the audio feed was interaction with his gestalt? Mere sound, but Overlord had seen mecha seize onto thinner shreds of hope. Fascinating! He hadn’t anticipated Onslaught coming into the equation for Vortex in any significant way. Perhaps some squeaking from the condemned mecha, but this sudden upwelling of contradictory feelings surprised him. He certainly hadn’t expected Vortex to find any hidden source of strength once the box popped open.

He’d assumed that the terror of imminent spark extraction would dampen everything else, but the confused field actually started to tone its pulses down. The more he grated his EM field against the Combaticon’s, the more the terrified ball of light seemed to subdue itself. Half exposed, Vortex’s spark contracted slightly from a stress-fluffed nova. He could see how the flickering of the plasma tendrils wasn’t spurting out as far, the rolling of the plasma mass becoming less frantic.

Overlord straightened to his full height behind the chair, towering above the Decepticon kneeling before it. “Vortex, your team commander has requested a short break in your well-deserved discipline in order to ask you a few questions. I want you to answer.”

"Ghhg...yesss -- Overlord, sir," said Vortex. The words were thick and staticky, dragging out a fraction too long on the consonants, but they were understandable.

It was such a different tone than the crippled-with-fear shrieking from before. The wide visor staring up at him seemed dazed, almost groggy. Had the mecha’s processor simply become overwhelmed with fear? Too many processor threads could have opened simultaneously, running scenarios of terror that had locked up his thoughts, or perhaps his logic centers had temporarily shorted out under millions of years of retrieved memories from Vortex’s previous incarceration.

Overlord watched the ‘copter closely, optics narrowed. “Proceed,” he said dismissively into his arm pick-up.

The comm. array clicked a few times as Onslaught took a desperate stab at professional aloofness. Oh, poor Combaticon. Overlord could practically smell the disbelief and rage rolling off the commline. The mecha could hardly believe one of his own had been reduced to clicks and whimpering.

Despite that, Onslaught’s voice was rough but level. "Vortex, report your status."

“Yessirrr,” mumbled Vortex. His helm wavered a bit from side to side before the wide red visor fixed on Overlord’s face again. A tinge of confusion filtered through the fear. “Sir...I don't have...the appropriate frequency code for this base, sir. I-I don’t have it. Requesting a local transmission permit, sir?” The band of red light dimmed as confusion deepened. “I zssseem to be having...commlink difficulties. My comm.’s offline, Overlord, sir.”

Overlord...?

Oh. Oooh, now _that_ was interesting.

Overlord felt the uncertain flickering of the EM field before him, and he saw the unfocused, tilted visor above Vortex’s slowing spark. He stifled a chuckle. So that was how it was, hmm?

It did made a twisted kind of sense. Every sliver of metal in Vortex was desperately scrambling for something to keep the spark-box at bay, but even before the crawling horror had struck, that same metal had been just as frantically reaching for a connection. The gestalt software craved it. It’d been grasping for it since the ‘copter had arrived to the base. That starved, involuntary need was what all this code-warping had been based on.

Except that the bubblewrap had been training, and this was the real thing. It made sense that the reaction would be stronger. Overlord had counted on that, but he hadn't even thought of this angle. He’d linked the gestalt bond’s unconscious needs to the loyalty programming, but he missed the possibility that the gestalt protocols would link back to the loyalty software in this way.

The almost pathologic obedience achieved through the conditioning had been assaulted by the false impression of gestalt proximity caused by Onslaught’s voice. But both conditioned obedience to a superior officer and gestalt protocol obedience to the team leader were now being directed at the same mecha. The Combaticon’s software had been assaulted by overlaid protocol hierarchies as Onslaught’s voice came from Overlord's communication array. The rotary mecha's software must have done a quick comparison/contrast run and fused the sources of input.

Overlord thought over the implications of every superior officer being equal to a combiner unit’s team leader, and amusement quirked his lips. That explained Vortex’s weird reaction. He wondered if the ‘copter was incapable of separating he and Onslaught from their ranks, or if it was just lagging processors equating two individuals for the moment because of their office.

“ **Onslaught** , Vortex. You’re speaking with Onslaught. If you can’t keep up with the questions, you’d best not try to answer at all,” the triple-changer reprimanded him, reaching out to snap his fingers before the flickering visor.

Vortex jerked slightly with the noise. His throat worked as if he’d say something, but he looked up at Overlord and mutely swallowed whatever disjointed words he’d scraped together. He’d be silent until he managed coherency. The triple-changer rather fancied it’d be a while. The mecha didn’t seem to be processing too quickly.

Onslaught’s silence was deafening, and Overlord idly counted the seconds until the explosion. He was disappointed when it happened.

“What did you **do** to him?”

The Combaticon leader’s rage was still too cold, tempered by self-control -- if only a beat away from losing it, judging by the escalating amount of clicks coming through. That vocalizer was struggling to keep the volume low.

“Hmm.” He cocked his head to one side, studying his victim and specimen. “I might have overestimated Vortex’s, ah, shall we say, resilience. Although I’m quite sure he’s still functional, for all practical purposes. He **is** , as I said before, a bit stressed.”

Listening to the increase in reset clicks, he decided the time was almost right. Overlord sent the command to set the surveillance video feed on stand-by, a virtual nudge away from resolution on Onslaught’s end. The picture would be pixelated, but he imagined the Combaticon squinting at the screen in alarm as he picked out the blurry shape that must be Overlord, and perhaps that one there was Vortex, or maybe that other formless blur was the ‘copter. Neither was moving.

Just a little longer. Anytime now.

The anticipation. Mm. It was sweet.

Onslaught _sputtered_ , engine and vocalizer skipping under fury and building apprehension. “A bit -- this -- You are jeopardizing the **whole** blasted gestalt! He is a soldier under **my** command, you -- **you** \--”

A-ha, there it was. That was the sound of an officer ready to launch a three-hour tirade. Now was the perfect time for unveiling what exactly the situation was, and how little could be done to mitigate just how bad it was. That self-righteous tirade would reverse in the loveliest, sweetest sound of verbal backpedalling the universe would ever witness.

Overlord reckoned his life was wonderful sometimes.

Satisfaction dripped poisoned honey from his words. “Now now, Onslaught. Mind yourself. Before you say something I will make sure you regret later, allow me to dispel your concern. Your worry for the status of your team is wholly unnecessary!” He finally cleared the channel for the video feed and dropped his voice another octave to all but purr into his commlink pick-up. “The temporary fragmentation of your gestalt might have a few painful side effects, but none strong enough to incapacitate you. It shouldn’t take too long to be resolved. Shockwave has assured me that there are plenty of unframed sparks available, so I expect you won’t have to wait long before Bruticus is as good as new. Better, in fact,” he let his tongue savor the words, “without Vortex cluttering him up.”

From the other side of the line came the squeal of metal as moving parts came to a sudden halt. Then a whooshing gale filled the line when fans suddenly jumped to their fastest setting and all those moving parts twitched in violent, uncontrolled reaction. Interference crackled, but Onslaught spoke through the static. “You _hsshhhg_ \-- you can’t put someone in **zzzzrrt** ox, not without a trial or _shh_ **zoorr** rd Megatron’s direct approval.”

The grainy static belied the Combaticon’s factual statement. As hard as Onslaught tried, he couldn’t quite cover his sudden tension. Overlord hummed, amused. A telling turn of words, he thought. Onslaught had gone from arguing the well-being of the gestalt to playing lawyer for the rights of Decepticon soldiers. Did Onslaught genuinely fear for Vortex’s safety and his unit’s sanity, or was he picturing himself in Vortex’s place next?

“Lord Megatron’s orders were to exercise my own judgment over this waste of spare parts you call a gestaltmate, and my assessment, as I said to Vortex earlier today, is that he has not made the cut. He’s a liability, not an asset.”

“That’s not your judgment call to make -- ah.” It was, however, and Onslaught hasty sidestep into an appeal to rational thought was music to Overlord’s audios. Suddenly, the strident, demanding tone turned persuasive, reasonable. “I -- there’s no need to take such extreme measures, Overlord. There are other factors to be taken into consideration.”

“Mmhmm. Such as?”

A perceptive mecha might have heard the sound of a desperate Combaticon leader scrambling for anything plausible enough to stall with. “Ah. Well. For instance, group dynamics are far more important than they may seem on the outside. Replacing him without careful, ah,” oh, the beautiful sound of someone searching for words to avoid insulting the powerful mecha holding the killswitch, “ **deliberation** over a successor could disrupt the gestalt bond.”

“The data I’ve gathered from observing Vortex indicates that he, as an individual, disrupts your unit too much to do anything other than detract from the Combaticons as a whole,” Overlord countered, deep voice bored. “I have drones that could replace him and still improve your unit’s performance.”

A burst of binary interrupted the officers, followed by a soft _bleep_. The triple-changer returned his attention to the room and noticed the tiny light in the spark box was now signaling that the syncing process could be initiated. Onslaught’s response cut off as, alarmed, the mecha sucked a deep vent in against his fans. He apparently recognized what he saw.

Vortex saw the ready-light, too. Not that he could change anything. Beyond some defensive hunching and whining, he was done. Finished. Resistance gone, he was a cornered, condemned mecha. “Ons -- Onslaught...do something, do -- I...” Even his words had run out. They had been used up already, or Vortex thought they had, so he whined thinly. His fear-bleached visor was still turned to Overlord.

“Are you **hearing** this, Onslaught? Talking out of turn yet again. I even reminded him of his orders, but your subordinate cannot seem to follow the simplest commands even now. And you still doubt that a replacement is the better option?” the triple-changer asked, leveling a ‘concerned officer’ gaze of innocent inquiry that made Vortex’s rotor blades flinch. “Vortex, Vortex...I did try. A shame you stubbornly resisted the training at every turn.”

He opened one hand and sighed as if letting go of his regrets. “Ah, well. Better luck next time, as Shockwave assures me will be the case.” Rotor blades clattered, and a mewling warble leaked in a wretched stream from Vortex’s vocalizer. He wanted so badly to say something.

Overlord shook his head in mock sympathy. “I suppose I can show some leniency since it’s your last time using a vocalizer. Do go on and give your farewells to your commander while I finish up here. You may want to hurry. The last phase of extraction is over in a flash.”

With that, the triple-changer bent by the chair to start tapping on the back panel of the false spark chamber. The extractor probes gave off a high-pitched hum as they gathered power.

Vortex’s vocalizer just clicked over and over in a distress code. Overlord figured the rotary mecha didn’t even realize he was doing it.

“You are out of fragging line, Overlord. Only an imbecile would be arrogant enough to disregard the consequences of breaking up my gestalt.” And back to the anger. The Combaticon leader did recover fast. Overlord credited exposure to Starscream, possibly from being stationed on Earth with the infuriating Air Commander. The art of indirect threats became a heavily practiced skillset in Starscream’s vicinity, Overlord had found. “Your ego won’t help you against Bruticus.”

Onslaught’s technique could use some work.

“Oh please, spare me the theatrics,” the triple-changer sighed, and then he barked a laugh. “Actually, you should be thanking me, Onslaught! You’ll be receiving a soldier you **might** be able to control this time.” He piled on the false reassurance. “Don’t feel pressured, though, if you fail miserably to manage your own unit again. We can always try with another spare spark. We’re bound to eventually find the right match for your command ability or lack thereof. Or perhaps you might be whom I’m given to evaluate next.”

Onslaught’s rejoinder abruptly failed to manifest. Dead silence filled the open commlink as that silky non-threat hit home with the power of a tactical nuke.

Overlord turned his head so the camera in the corner could see his smile bloom, lazy as a stretching predator testing its claws. That was how it was done, amateur.

“What do you say, Vortex?” He straightened up and stepped around the chair to pat Vortex on the helm. “Do you think this might all have been avoided if your commanding officer was less, how shall we say...mediocre? I think we can agree there,” a strangled grunt that wanted to be a protest filtered through the commline, “but you’re also to blame, aren’t you, Vortex?” Another condescending pat. “You earned this sentence all on your own, now didn’t you?”

The ‘copter shuddered, fingers curling on his thighs, but his obedience to Overlord’s orders was absolute. He made a pitiful noise, pleading without words. His head turned a bare fraction in order to push into the heavy hand resting on him. Even now, it was a sign of approval, it was a question asked. Being granted a pat made his spark furl and unfurl in conflicting sensations of fulfillment and hunger, and Overlord’s EM field soaked in the roiling boil of dual emotions throbbing from Vortex’s circuitry.

He’d been asked a question, and he had to answer. “Yes, yes, I’m -- yes,” the smaller Decepticon whimpered.

Ooh? Another interesting twist. The hulking mecha hadn’t expected the ‘copter to pull together enough to manage an answer, but he had, and that answer was intriguing.

His optics sharpened, focusing for the moment on dissecting Vortex instead of pulling apart Onslaught. “What was that? You **agree**? You agree with Lord Megatron’s decision to send you here under my command. You agree that you deserve to take up residence inside your shiny new spark-box home.” His hand closed around the top of the grey helm. “Forgive me if I find this sudden change of spark somewhat surprising. Why, I do hope you’re not trying to **lie** to me, Vortex.”

But there was no jerking as the ‘copter fought angry coding and conditioning alike. The helm in his hand just rubbed slightly from side to side in weak denial. Vortex reset his vocalizer and whispered an even weaker, “I agree, Overlord, sir. I‘m not lying. I agree -- I do, I swear.”

If Overlord had needed complete confirmation that the conditioning and loyalty programming had meshed correctly, this was it. Vortex had been totally subjugated. More than that, he knew it and embraced it, because that warped coding presented the only, _only_ speck of hope to be found right now. If there were any salvation to be had, the sole methods left to Vortex to seek it were abject surrender and obedience to Lord Megatron -- through Overlord.

Onslaught would surely benefit from knowing that little fact, too.

Overlord smiled broadly and gave a hearty laugh. “I’m glad we finally agree on this matter!” Among the creaky, stressed sounds of a frame in upheaval, Vortex’s motor gave the tiniest purr at the approving tone from his officer. “Your commander, however, is harder to convince. You see, he’s under the impression that you don’t deserve what is happening.” Overlord injected a companionable note into his voice, as if they were old friends talking together. “But you and I know better, don’t we? Perhaps you should inform him of what exactly you've done wrong, Vortex. Would you like the opportunity to do that? Hmm? Shall we delay your sentence just a few minutes more?”

Every saccharine sweet word was accentuated with a caress over the helm pushing into his palm, and every stroke was met unerringly with a small, eager nod. Primus _yes_ , would Vortex like that! Such a willing participant in the explaining, Vortex was. For even just a handful of minutes more, he would perform whatever song and dance Overlord commanded!

“Very well,” said the massive Decepticon, and he used one finger to gently turn the Combaticon’s head by his chin until the red visor pointed toward the upper corner of the room. It had been invisible when Vortex had been bound in the plastic facing the door, but the small dot of a lens was barely visible back there if one knew where to look. “Go on, then. Don’t hold up your commander’s valuable time.”

Urged to begin or not, Vortex hesitated. He had to. It was impossible for mecha to scream for help then explain why he _didn’t deserve_ help five minutes later while still being completely sincere both times. At least not without a squall of contradicting thought processes going on.

Even so, the hesitation only lasted a second. It didn’t quite last long enough to prompt Onslaught into saying more than confounded half-words through Overlord’s communication array.

“I -- I apologize. I apologize h-humbly and profoundly,” Vortex started, and his voice shook around the words he thought Overlord wanted to hear first. “I can’t -- I can’t apologize enough for m-my behavior. I know that. But I’m s-sorry, please, I’m sorry.”

But this wasn’t an explanation for Overlord’s benefit. Overlord knew his sins, after all, and they were too great to number. He was just being given the opportunity to delay the inevitable consequences of those sins by listing them for Onslaught, who would likely agree and write him off for the failure he was in Lord Megatron’s optics. The ‘copter glanced at Overlord: Lord Megatron’s hand on his neck here and now, judge and jury and executioner.

Overlord did so love how mecha could cringe even while cringing. He was sure Onslaught was enjoying the show. Just how low could Vortex be brought? Time to find out.

“Onslaught, I -- “ The ‘copter swallowed to force a vocalizer reset. “Onslaught, sir, I...I tried to...to disobey. I was wrong. I kn-knew what the programming was supposed to d-do, and...and I f-found ways to g-get around -- around... around it. Around Lord Megatron's will. Please accept my m-most sincere apologies. I was disloyal, and I regr-gret that now. I know b-better. I was given a second chance to... to prove my usefulness a-and loyalty, and I…” Pained, Vortex dimmed his visor and made himself admit it, make it real. “I squandered it, Onslaught! I w-wasted it, and I’m sorry and Primus, please, I didn’t mean to -- “

Overlord pointedly cleared his throat.

Vortex’s shoulders hunched. “I-I...yeah. And -- and -- and I d-didn’t learn what I was t-taught even though...even though O-Overlord -- sir, Overlord, sir. H-he tried, I know he did, but I was a f-fool and didn’t listen.” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “I’m so sorry. I -- I can’t tell you how sorry I am for my st-stupidity. I want to apologize, I really do, please.” He seemed to wrestle shame and panic back, well aware that the clock was ticking and he didn’t want to anger the officer any further. After another swallow and reset, he clicked a few times and resumed. “I wasn’t guh-grateful for the training or the time Overlord -- Overlord, sir -- spent,” a wince, “wasted on m-me. I threw it on the ground, and...and I sl-slandered...I slandered Overlord, sir. I can only apologize again,” he said, thin and hopeless, “for falsely a-accusing him of breaking his word. I was wrong. I was so wrong. I d-didn’t think. I was an idiot. And I t-took off the...the plastic.” Oh, he should have never done that. “I -- I tore it. I m-moved without permission. A-against orders. Primus, I -- I deserted my post.”

Overlord didn’t listen to the progressively more desperate list of affronts Vortex was listing to the world in an agonized, stumbling confession. He focused solely on his speakers. Onslaught’s vocalizer was completely silent, but the tell-tale noises of his frame gave the Combaticon leader away. Terror and disgust warred, holding and releasing control of fans and engines in whooshing bursts.

It made Overlord wonder again about how far a gestalt bond reached. Did the spark-deep links connect the Combaticons even this far away from each other? Was the mecha on the other side of the commline subtly gagging because of what he listened to or because of how much _honesty_ was packed into the words? From where Overlord stood, he could see Vortex’s agitated spark throbbing slowly as the syncing between the spark chamber and spark-box progressed. He’d put it on its slowest setting, letting the extractor ease its arms into Vortex’s chest in an inching crawl. As spark energy diverted from Vortex’s circuitry into the box’s, the mecha’s EM field pulsed weaker and weaker, but it was so full of genuine shame and repentance. Onslaught must be ready to purge all over the console if he was receiving even a fraction of that emotion.

Speaking of whom.

“Overlord,” said the Combaticon leader in an oddly hollow voice. “I am, as of this moment, bringing this...this matter before Lord Megatron. I question your objectivity in sentencing my subordinate and intend to appeal to Lord Megatron directly. Hold the procedure for his decision.”

“ **Or else** , right?” Overlord chuckled.

Onslaught’s identifying code left the channel without another word, and the triple-changer laughed again as he watched tiny dots of light flicker across the spark-box’s surface. The patterns reflected the pulses of charge generated by Vortex’s spark. The witless Combaticon commander should hurry. Overlord would sooner offline the glitchy little ‘copter right then and there than respect a threat from the other officer.

His attention returned to the mecha attached to the device. Vortex still stared up at the camera in the corner, visor limned white around the edges where stress had widened it past the glass. He stared as if Onslaught and the rest of his combiner team were crammed up there, but his gaze wasn’t one of hope. It was despair. He babbled a litany of offenses to the imagined audience, and the triple-changer let him continue while the machine on the chair made its progress.

The deeper the extractor arms slid in, the more desperate Vortex became. He sniveled and confessed harder, because it was the only thing left that he could do. Overlord found himself becoming more amused as Vortex dug out the smallest crimes to apologize for. Stealing a sip of his teammate’s high-grade? Really, Vortex. That alone deserved sixty lashes and a month in solitary confinement.

When the ‘copter couldn’t think of any more slights he might have committed, he still kept on talking. “...and -- and Onslaught, sir, I realize it’s not m-my place to dare ask this, but please...could you please, **please** ask Lord Megatron f-for another chance. A chance to resume training un...under Overlord, s-sir.” He flinched and didn’t risk looking toward the looming officer. “Even -- even though I know I don’t de-deserve it. I c-can’t make up for my failure, but I swear...I swear I’ll try so much harder if -- if I could just be allowed another try, j-just one more, I’ll learn this time! And -- and -- ”

Overlord rested an elbow on the chair back and leaned in to intently watch every jitter, every twitch of tense throat cabling that caused the stammered words and tiny, frightened tremor of Vortex’s jaw.

This was his design. His creation. A lovingly crafted piece of art, however flawed it currently was. He’d tilled the ground, and this was the harvest.

But there was still some time for pruning the finished product. Behind the wreckage currently debasing himself on the floor, there was still some measure of awareness. Whatever shape Overlord might have twisted the mecha’s processor into, some part of Vortex would always retain a sense of what had been done to him. The difference between his original thoughts and the ones fostered by the training would always be there to remind the Combaticon of what freedom had tasted like.

The mech had showed how tethered down he really was by trying to escape. He’d foolishly thought that the divide between gestalt software conditioning and loyalty programming would allow him to squirm free, but the divide had closed. Now there was just the line between free will and life as Vortex now knew it, trapped under triple-changer’s heel.

In a sense, Vortex was already inside a box, only it was tailored to his mind rather than spark. Both worked in the same way. Inside it, the ‘copter had full knowledge of his lack of freedom and all the time in the universe to dwell on memories of how it used to be. Outside it, he had no power whatsoever to do anything about his imprisonment.

The code-box was much more permanent than the spark-box, however. More accessible, too, for those that liked to watch results as they happened. Such an entertaining sight, if one knew what had been carefully cultivated inside the Combaticon’s warped core.

Yes, definitely more entertaining to watch than a living paperweight. And Overlord did have some hands-on polishing to do on this piece of work, still.

 _Hmmmm_.

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	19. Chapter 19

**0 0 Part Nineteen 0 0**

“Enough,” Overlord said, and the vocalizer in Vortex’s throat clicked off without conscious thought. Obedience, instant and unquestioning, and he couldn’t even hate the part of him that prized that instinctive obedience as proof of what a good subordinate he was. He wanted to look at Overlord to see if it had been noticed. A terrible thrill of pride zipped through his terror when he managed to stay staring at the speaker, although his visor twitched with the effort. He could learn, he really could. He _was_ learning, see? Not a single glance without an order, _see?_

A large finger tapped lightly on the far side of Vortex’s mask, directing his gaze to the hulking Decepticon who held his spark hostage.

“That much?” Overlord asked almost distantly, and Vortex’s first panic-fuelled thought was that he had missed a previous statement. But Overlord’s finger tapped hard on the glass of his visor -- _pay attention, worm_ \-- as the warlord asked, “You want to come back that much, Vortex? To train under my care, Combaticon?”

“Primus, yes! Please, yes,” Vortex whispered in the lowest voice he could muster, because right now, _right now_ , he’d trade everything in the universe to be a glorified footstool to the sadist if that was the only way Overlord would take him back. Resuming training was a scenario too good to be true. ‘That much’ was the biggest understatement in history! 

Not to mention it was an especially miserable statement, an implement of torture Overlord used to delicately twist the blade a bit more. As much as Vortex knew better, hope was such an easy thing to rekindle. He knew better, he knew it was an illusion, yet conflicted terror and desire stabbed him strong enough to shake his whole body as his systems hiccupped. His fragmented self fought to suppress the cruel sliver of hope, all the while extremely, excruciatingly conscious that its existence balanced on the whim of the officer stroking the back of a finger down the side of his mask. 

Overlord’s hand traced the side of Vortex’s helm and ended up resting on his shaky head. The light pressure set the Combaticon’s sensor net on fire, but his insides felt like ice. Maybe it was imagination, but his core temperature seemed to tick colder and colder for each second that passed. Spark-synchronization progressed. Overlord had slowed the extraction process, not stopped it. Vortex’s spark kept strengthening its affiliation with the isolation circuitry. Very soon, it would feel no difference when transferred into the prison waiting for it.

No, Vortex didn’t think it was imagination. He felt cold, and it was the coldness of an empty frame.

_Not empty yet,_ Vortex thought with sluggish, desperate, despairing hope. Not while he could hear Overlord. At this moment, he wanted to keep hearing that horrid voice forever. His dearest wish was to feel that condescending hand laid on his helm, see that hated face above him. Yes, okay, he’d admit it! He wanted to return to Overlord’s tender care _that much_ because even the small part of himself still able to gag at the concept of voluntarily submission longed for Overlord to accept his absolute surrender right now. He’d embrace service with open arms if it meant being spared the Box!

“You **do** realize that if I **allowed** you the favor of keeping your pitiful, useless spark in your frame, I’d be going against the Cause’s best interest, don’t you? I have a high regard for work ethics, you see. People like you don’t deserve to be Decepticons. Keeping you out of stasis would dilute the ranks, I think, and really, we have standards for a reason. Violating them is how you managed to slip by with so little, mm, commitment. Effort. **Dedication** ,” Overlord said as if relishing the word. “That’s what you lack. Dedication to the Cause. Allowing you this far was a mistake on your former commanders’ part, as Onslaught so aptly demonstrated before you arrived here. A soldier without proper discipline is a weakness to be culled, not ignored, and permitting you to continue as you are…such an irregularity would be most distressing.” The nearly idle musing on his failings was accompanied by lazy strokes to the top of his helm. 

Vortex’s visor darkened in shame as the words burned into his already-flinching programming. The loyalty program lapped up the officer’s disapproval like fuel for the flames.

There had been a question buried in the contempt, however, and the ‘copter slurred a quiet, “I know, sir.” He knew too well that he deserved the spark-box. Overlord would be acting counter to the Decepticon Cause to grant him unearned, unappreciated mercy once more. Lord Megatron had given him a second chance already, after all, and look what that had come to? His code twinged, and Vortex winced. Loss of frame and freedom was no excuse for bringing moral trouble to his officer. 

He could _change_. Primus save him, but Vortex wanted to beg for the opportunity to show what kind of dedication to the Cause he could have given sufficient motivation. Motivation he had in spades, now. 

Motivation that kept him obediently silent. All of his coding screamed that the only salvation possible was through obedience, but even as he knuckled under to it, he knew it was a lie. Submitting to Overlord’s commands had the smallest fraction of a chance of earning mercy, but it was nothing but a lesson learned too late, the moral of a warning fable: _As the Box closed, Vortex last thought was how obedience to Lord Megatron was the one, true, correct path that could have saved him._

It was the goodnight kiss before he was packed away for good. Vortex looked up at Overlord, visor swimming in sick fear, and thought, _Sweet dreams, Vortex._

Overlord chuckled lightly, giving him one last pat on the head. His hand reached down to the seat of the chair Vortex knelt before, and Vortex’s vents whistled as the ‘copter drew in a sharp, terrified breath. Oh, frag, here it came. 

One thick finger tapped a button on the spark-box. Vortex braced himself as best he could, considering his open spark chamber and total helplessness. A pitiful sound sobbed past his frozen fans. 

The moving pattern of lights halted. They just…stopped. Deceptively calm, they blinked at standby. Vortex’s vision narrowed until all he could see was the band of lights. His visor darkened and paled in succession, a thin strip of red between dim black. It blinked now and then to the steady rhythm, stuttering with the erratic seizing of his fuel pump.

Overlord withdrew his hand, setting both elbows on the chair in order to lean forward over the violently shivering mech. “You know? Indeed, you do. I might have succeeded in showing you the error of your ways, at least that much.” He shrugged carelessly and looked down at the spark-box. “How much would you give to stay out of this little device, I wonder?”

Vortex’s spark flashed so brightly it glittered off the officer’s armor, and his fuel pump leapt up his throat, strangling his voice to a frantic blurt of, “Overlord, sir, **anything!** I swear I would, I-I-please, I swear -- ”

“’Anything’ is a pretty grand word,” the warlord interrupted. Overlord wasn’t smiling anymore. He looked at Vortex with thoughtful optics that saw every tiny flaw in him. 

The rotary’s fuel lines throbbed under the scrutiny. Hope was painful. Primus dying in the Pit, was Overlord actually considering a pardon?

“You’d love to be back in your plastic now,” Overlord said. 

It wasn’t a question. It didn’t have to be. The dregs of Vortex’s EM field surged in response, an outpouring of longing. Yes, yes he would. He’d file a permanent leave request for plastic-encasement purposes, if he was permitted to fill out the form.

A distant and forgotten subprocessor chimed in that he’d like it more if all plastic on Earth burned, along with Overlord, Shockwave, the rest of Earth, and everything else really. It went completely unheard.

The powerful field pressed down on him shimmered with amusement, and it rightly scared Vortex out of his processor. Not being boxed was a distant possibility, an illusion of hope, and he _knew_ the fragger would take it away in the end but Vortex couldn’t help but reach toward the salvation dangling out of reach. Plastic? What a fantastic idea! Please, _allow_ him to be immobilized for months in a sadistic parody of training. 

Some of the sniveling plea in his EM field must have gotten through. Overlord cocked his head to the side as if listening to the sweet sound of the absence of dignity. “You’d cherish every hour I leave you to rot alone, wouldn’t you?” he asked in a patronizing voice. “Every painful moment on your own to remind yourself of your place might actually inspire the gratitude it deserves. Isn’t that right?” 

“Yes! Yessir, I would be -- I’d be grateful! For every minute of it, I swear I’d be, that I’d, I -- please, I deserve punishment, I know, but I could, I could -- “ Vortex reset his vocalizer, forcing himself to slow down from a panicked babble. “I would do so much better, I promise. I’d learn! I-I **want** the plastic. Please? Just take me back, sir, I’ll be grateful, I will -- I already am, Overlord, sir.”

His pleading dissolved into crackling static under Overlord's stare. The mech’s hyper-expressive face was a blank slate, waiting for some cue Vortex didn’t know. He had no idea if groveling was improving his chances or not. They were back to no clues, and Vortex _ached_ for guidance from his gracious, benevolent officer. Some directions. Something to tell him he was doing the right thing.

Perhaps he wasn’t giving enough, uh, reasons? Solid, concrete reasons to counter all the reasons he should be condemned to spark extraction. Why should Overlord keep him out, anyways? What did he have to offer that could prove his worth?

Vortex scrambled for tangible reasons. “Sir, I -- you wouldn’t even need the plastic, I mean, I mean, it’s torn up and I’m **sorry** , but I -- I won’t move, at all. I swear I’d stay still on my own. I can do it! I -- whatever you want me to do, I’ll do it. I’ll do anything you order me to!” There wasn’t even a flicker of interest on Overlord’s face. Vortex recalled some of the officer’s comments and hoped desperately finances were actually something Overlord cared about. “I, I can -- I want to earn my keep, sir, I-I, um, please? I could, er, repay some of the time you -- the Empire! Spent on my training. I could maybe work on base maintenance?” From warrior to janitor, and he didn’t even care, he’d degrade himself to the floor! “Please, sir -- “

He flinched wildly at the sudden crack of loud static that burst from Overlord’s external speakers.

“Overlord, you are ordered to stop the procedure **now!** ”

Vortex’s visor bleached to a pale pink, bright enough that a couple optic sensors burnt out in their sockets. This…this was real? No. No, this couldn’t possibly be true. It was just a mistake. A cruel taunt. His superior officer hadn’t given him permission yet and he had been ordered -- _OverlordAlwaysKeptHisPromises_ \-- into the spark-box, so that was what was going to happen. Onslaught didn’t know, but Onslaught didn’t have the authority to change anything. A pardon wasn’t real unless Overlord said it was. The fragger -- _not_ fragger! Vortex wasn’t insulting a superior officer, sir no sir! -- Overlord, sir, would take Onslaught’s orders and toss them in a shredder. And he’d be doing what was right, because Vortex _didn’t_ deserve a pardon.

But…Onslaught had brought the matter before Lord Megatron, and final judgment belonged to Lord Megatron, so if Lord Megatron had said it was okay, so maybe it was? Unless -- no, it couldn’t be, he shouldn’t get his hopes up --

“Hmmm?” Overlord sounded completely disinterested as he turned to look at the camera in the corner, and Vortex gulped air, vent slats shuddering in a low sound of misery.

Well, he’d known, hadn’t he? It was all just a very complicated prelude to going bye-bye for a very long period of time. Forever, probably.

Onslaught’s voice was harsh through Overlord’s speakers. “Megatron has vetoed the use of the spark extractor and issued a pardon. I have orders encrypted directly with Lord Megatron’s signa -- ”

“Oh, don’t bother. You can keep those, Combaticon. I have reconsidered.”

_I have reconsidered._

That single sentence sucker-punched Vortex into complete systemic halt.

“You have.” Onslaught’s voice went as colorless as a corpse. White noise hissed through the open line.

Not that Vortex was able to notice anything past Overlord’s statement.

He…he wasn’t going into the Box. Overlord had reconsidered. Overlord had said out loud in a definitive statement that he had reconsidered. Primus. Primus was merciful and kind. _Overlord_ was merciful and kind. He had _pardoned_ Vortex.

The stress relief response was strong enough to erase almost every single warning in his cache, triggering a quick reset. Vortex slumped forward suddenly, visor wide and dim. His spark glittered a jittery dance that had the lights in the Box flashing along in a frenzy. 

Overlord turned sharply at the odd noise of Vortex crumpling nearly headfirst into the Box. He was right in time to see the darkened visor slowly brighten again, and he laughed as Vortex gave a high-pitched shriek of terror, shoving away from the arms of the spark extractor. Blinking rapidly, Vortex tore his gaze away from the reaching arms and looked up at him. The rotary’s weak EM field strained to the feet of the mech laughing at his expense, and there was nothing but a vast, bottomless gratitude filling it.

“Vortex! Status report!” roared Onslaught, but the ‘copter barely heard the command. 

He fixated on Overlord, sure of only one thing in this brand new world of second chances, and that one thing was how much depended on showing his appreciation for mercy granted. “Sir, I -- thank you, sir. I’m so, **so** grateful, Overlord, sir.” His vocalizer wavered between frequencies so badly the words were a staticky mumble. “I’ll do my best, sir. I swear, I won’t disappoint you again. I won’t. I-I won’t squander this opportunity Lord -- “ He paused to swallow hard. “Lord Megatron has given me, I swear. I know I don’t deserve it, but I promise I’ll make it worth your while!”

Overlord’s optic darkened. The corrosive edge of the triple-changer’s EM field wormed closer, coiling around him and dripping sadistic contempt that stung Vortex’s systems. It made the ‘copter cringe even before Overlord nodded slightly towards the small camera in the corner. “Vortex, you are ignoring an order your unit commander has just given you. Is this what you meant by ‘do your best’? We are not off to a very good start...” The chiding tone dropped to a dangerous coldness. “…again.”

A thin crackle of static and a few fumbled apologies later, Vortex stalled as he dug for whatever Onslaught had just said. It had gone completely over his head, but rewind, rewind, please, it had to still be in his audio queue --

Oh, _frag_. “Onslaught! Onslaught, sir! I apologize, sir, I meant no disrespect, I just -- I’m fully functional, sir. I -- sir? May I speak freely?” The words were theoretically directed at Onslaught, but he gazed nervously at Overlord as he spoke. He knew whose word was law, here and now, and he wouldn’t be forgetting any time soon.

The officer made a lazy _Proceed_ gesture with his hand. Fortunately, it coincided with Onslaught’s choked, “Yes.”

“Sir, I want to state for the record my gratitude towards Lord Megatron, sir! For having given me a second chance.” Vortex knew communicating via the gestalt link was impossible from this distance, but he strained to project his sincerity, if only in an attempt at conveying the importance of this message. He would _not_ be ungrateful this time. He would be thankful for everything, as little as he deserved it, and he would make sure his superior officers _knew_ he appreciated their time and effort. He would demonstrate it in his behavior, and he would say all the right words this time, he _would!_ “Please Onslaught, sir, **please** tell him I won’t fail him again. Tell him! Tell him I’m so very grateful that he even considers me worth another chance, and -- and for allowing my training to continue!” His ventilation system rocked him on his knees as air panted out of his vents in huge, heaving breaths. “Please, sir!”

The other side of the comm. line remained silent and the rotary started to slide into panic. No acknowledgement? Surely he must not be trying hard enough. Or he wasn’t grateful enough. He hadn’t reached quota for thankfulness, or there were standards for how he should have phrased it, like apologizing to that stupid door --

Wait, had he just demanded his unit commander to relay a message?

“Sir! Onslaught!? I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to -- it’s not my place to ask for anything -- “ He clicked several times, vocalizer shutting on and off as horror squeezed his spark into a ball of writhing plasma. “It won’t happen again, I swear! I-I’m not worthy of -- of -- ”

“Indeed,” Overlord cut in, and the kneeling mech whined to a halt, visor snapping down to the floor like he couldn’t help but show his apology somehow. Overlord straightened up, looming over him, and he bowed his helm further. “But Onslaught, please **do** relay Vortex’s message. Lord Megatron has allowed a reprieve for your underling. I’m quite sure a feedback report is mandatory since it was his status report which caused your concern in the first place, yes?”

“Yes.” Vortex hadn’t heard Onslaught load one word with so much disgust since Megatron had ordered amnesty for Swindle after the spare parts incident.

“Well then! If that was all, I believe your business here is over,” said the triple-changer in an artificially cheerful voice designed to grate in Onslaught’s gears like sand. He spread a hand to show off the pathetic, shivering wreck kneeling in front of the chair. “As you can see, Vortex is in optimal condition! Your precious combiner team’s integrity is as unthreatened as it’s ever going to be, seeing as **you** command it. Please give **Lord Megatron himself** my regards, and have a nice day.”

Vortex dialed up his audios, straining to hear, but after almost a whole minute of only soft static hissing from Overlord’s speakers, the line blipped as the connection closed. A sharp pang of almost-but-not-quite pain made his spark lurch. His gestalt code squirmed restlessly, for a moment in conflict with the loyalty program. It recognized what was probably the last time he was going to have contact with his team for an extremely long time. 

Entwined as it was with the loyalty program, the conflict settled quickly. Both sets of software subsided into low-level discomfort, a reminder that he shouldn’t have demanded Onslaught talk to Lord Megatron on his behalf. Onslaught had not forgiven him the slight. That was likely why he’d hung up.

The logic didn’t follow, but obedience wasn’t about logic. Obedience was obedience. His logic hubs didn’t even question the orders he was given any more.

Vortex had learned the hard way to obey for obedience’s sake. Obedience had earned him a shred of grace, and without that miniscule shelter to hide behind, he deserved everything in this room: the silence, the Box, and the optics that looked down at him from above, narrowed in amusement.

What he didn’t deserve was the _bee-beep_ ing of the spark extractor slowly reverting the hold it held on his spark, and he was well-aware of it. Praise Lord Megatron and Primus alike, he didn’t have to go into the Box!

The rotary slumped and trembled as movement became easier. The coldness in his extremities abated the lights turned red, one at a time, and the Box disengaged from his spark chamber. Outermost plating begun recovering sensor functions. Processes started running smoother. Minutes passed while the gadget folded back into a simple cube, and Vortex chewed his anger and fear into a fine pulp.

The coding kept poking him, needling him with unease and fear. How was he supposed to apologize to Onslaught? His vocalizer had processed files faster than his brain module, and while he had almost certainly spat much more impolite things in Onslaught’s direction before, his deformed code didn’t accept that as an excuse. He’d said two words without a ‘please’ in the middle. Worse, he’d made a demand to an officer. That wasn’t his place.

This was going to make team relations a nightmare. No more cussing Onslaught out over commlines during battle. Onslaught, _sir_. Right. That was going to have to become second nature, like addressing Lord Megatron as, well, Lord. 

Eventually, something brushed his helm and jarred him out of his thoughts. He jerked his head up, looking right into Overlord’s disapproving frown. “Sir!” he bleated in instant submission. Aft-kissing on automatic.

He froze as the hand that had touched him rested on top of his helm. Overlord’s optics darkened, and Vortex relaxed. He was hideously grateful for easily understandable cues. Frag his life, but he’d missed them. 

He waited patiently while the triple-changer inspected him critically. “Stand up,” Overlord said.

Vortex did as instructed, wobbling slightly.

Bending down, Overlord tapped one of the rotary’s feet. “Open.”

Huh? Why -- Oh.

Oh no.

A massive hand held the familiar, dreaded cube before him. Vortex looked from the spark-box to Overlord’s face, reading the cruel pleasure there all too easily. His resistance was pardoned, but the warlord was obviously far from appeased. Vortex would pay for what he’d done, pay and pay.

A thin whine of static threaded out of his vocalizer as he reached for the spark-box. His hands trembled. Holding it gingerly with his fingertips felt like too much contact with the horrible device.

It was still mildly warm from recent activation when he knelt to slide it into the cabin compartment in his left foot. Sensors indicated it weighed slightly more than an energon cube. It would hardly affect his balance while walking, much less while flying.

It felt like it was dissolving his plating from the inside out.

“Good,” Overlord said. 

Pleasure flushed down Vortex’s lines. Not sufficient to wash away the terrified hate and disgust, but enough to coat it with a shiny gloss. He was being a good soldier, and his officer approved. 

The triple-changer smiled at him as he stood back up. “I thought it would be better for you if you kept it. I don’t think you need the reminder,” the way he lingered over the words made it crystal clear it was exactly that, “but just so it’s handy. In case you need it again, hmm?” 

“Yes, sir,” Vortex rasped quietly. This was a favor, of course. It was being kept handy for _him_ , right? And because it was done for him, he had to say it. He had to. He didn’t want to, but he did anyway. “Thank you, sir.”

Overlord cupped the side of his helm in one huge hand, giving him a kind smile. “I will be checking to make sure it’s in working condition, Vortex. Equipment entrusted to a soldier’s care should be cared for.” The grip turned crushing, and Vortex stiffened, visor pitifully wide as he was hauled frighteningly near that smile. It stayed just as kind even as Overlord said, “And should I find it has suffered some form of malfunction, well. I’ll just have to think of an alternative means of **punishment**.” 

Vortex had no doubt, staring into Overlord’s optics, that the Box was the better option.  
.  
.  
.  
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	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to personal matters, this fic will no longer continue. 
> 
> I will post the parts that I have already written unedited, and then the outline of the missing bits until the end. 
> 
> My apologies for the people who had been looking forward to seeing this story completed.

  **0 0 Part Twenty 0 0**

 

Overlord took the chair with him when he left the room along with the data-pad, the empty cube of high grade and the glass.

The triple-changer had pocketed everything but the piece of furniture. He carried it slowly to the storage place where he had taken it from, three floors above the small room where he had left Vortex huddled in the floor.

Once it was placed back where it belonged, annoyed optics taking in the messiness in the room, Overlord descended back to his private quarters. He took a round-about rout to stay beyond the range of the Combaticon’s sensors.

Right now wasn’t a good moment to distract Vortex with nuances like the whereabouts of his closest superior officer. Overlord wanted to see what the mech would do when left to his own devices.

Vortex had assured him he’d make himself useful. Well, this was his chance to prove how much he actually meant it.

It seemed the part about obeying orders had established fairly well in that brain module of his, give or take some hesitation and whining, but there was still the matter of initiative, and the phase-sixer was looking forward to finding out just how creative Vortex could get.

That would be later, though. First the ‘copter needed to come down from the terror-high where the box had left him, and put his mind back into a place where the warlord could work with it.

Overlord could recognize pretty well when a mech’s mental state was too unstable for life lessons to stick. It could be mighty fun to fiddle with, but it ultimately rendered most training sessions into blurred memories, rather than the sharp piercing recalling he wanted the Combaticon to have.

Thus, he proceeded to get back into his room and get comfortable in front of the screens. The worst of the shaking abated in a few hours, but it would take much longer for Vortex to realize that he could, in fact move at all without major consequences.

Overlord left a low-priority note for himself on requesting a refill of reading materials. He was nearing the end of his stash.

Eventually the triple-changer saw the smaller mech glance around minutely. It was the tiniest, most hesitant of movements, but it was the first sign of conscious action. Overlord took note of the time lapse satisfied.

From the outside, days might have looked like an awfully long time for a mech to resolve doing something as basic as looking around, but for anyone who had Do Not Do Without Command carved with acid on his brain module it was a great leap. It meant the conditioning was starting the process of adapting.

Dumb following of every explicit order and no further was only desirable as a base to construct upon. Eventually training needed to allow for flexible thinking. Not enough for it to be possible to circumvent, but with enough wiggle space for Vortex to be able to actively improve on it.

And Primus, the little glitch was eager to. Those quivering blades and curling fingers spoke volumes.

Overlord chuckled amused. Vortex looked like he was itching to move, but the door had been left open, and as much as he was discreetly flexing stiff joints, the Combaticon hadn’t stepped from the spot where Overlord had left him standing. 

Very well, if his trainee was in such need to do something, Overlord would provide.

When the phase-sixer stood at the door of the cell again, Vortex was rigid as a crystal sculpture. Overlord slowly circled the ‘copter until the whirring of stressed fans reached its highest setting. He was waiting just to see if the Combaticon would speak out of place, but he didn’t.

Good.

“I see you have not left this time.”

Silence. The slightest hunching of shoulders. A visor bleaching into a pinkish hue. The copter’s EM field was rich with bitter, angry embarrassment.

“Very good. Shame is exactly what you should feel. At least that much from your latest babble was right,” Overlord said, one step away from the door once again.

Vortex’ rotors were now positively shaking with anxiety. Oh, the rotary didn’t want to be left alone again. Too bad.

“Vortex, ” Overlord smiled, optics staring pointedly at one of the further corners of the room, “do something about that, will you?”

Vortex turned so fast to look at the forgotten pieces of bubble wrap in the back of the room that his knees creaked, and the mech almost tumbled to the floor. He turned back just as fast, only to see Overlord’s back turning around the corner.   

Overlord heard an unarticulated whine above the clomping of his footsteps down the stairs.

Such a vocal mech, Vortex.

Surprising, too, Overlord thought. Sometimes.

The order had been ambiguous on purpose, of course. The idea _was_ that Vortex constructed his own concept of ‘do something’ for his current situation. It was supposed to be an exercise on free creative thinking within conditioning-approved parameters, and under those terms, it had been a success.

It just wasn’t the successful result Overlord had had in mind.

The triple-changer snorted at the screen, and then coughed his air filters clear.  

He had expected to see the plastic being folded neatly to make transportation more convenient or maybe heated until it shriveled into a more manageable dense clump. Pit, even perhaps Vortex stuffing the sheets into storage pockets.

What Overlord saw instead was Vortex taking one bit of plastic up to his visor for close examination. Then the mech gathered the mess of torn insulating material into a pile and proceeded to match the torn edges, as if it was a giant jagged jigsaw puzzle. He did it with such carefulness it looked like he was reassembling broken glass. Vortex was attempting to _fix_ the bubblewrap?

Overlord was quite interested in seeing what the mech was going to stick the edges together with.

Amused optics followed the little Combaticon floors above as he walked around, lying down a patchwork out of the mess.

It was unexpected, but the fact that Vortex had chosen to repair the wrapping rather than dispose of it spoke volumes… and Overlord very much doubted that Vortex was unaware of it.

Something along the lines of ‘Back into the plastic, plz, Sir,’ maybe…? Well, at the very least he had to admire the entertainment value of the whole thing.

Eventually, all the plastic pieces were placed neatly on the floor. Overlord tapped his fingers impatiently, watching the mech walk carefully among the sheets, checking his work, and moving pieces slightly here and there. When he was apparently satisfied, the mech proceeded to stand in the middle of the room and look directly at the camera with the most miserable, widest visor of silent assistance seeking.

Oh, this was pathetic.

Of course Vortex didn’t have anything to actually stick the plastic together with, but that wouldn’t stop him from attempting to fix it up, right? He could always whine until his commanding officer deigned… tossing sticky tape at him. Or at least acknowledge he was doing what he was supposed to be doing.

This was pathetic but also still moving in the direction Overlord had intended it to go. Well done Vortex for thinking, ahem, outside of the box.

Still, there was value in reminding his pet project that superior officers cannot be pending constantly on each of their subordinate’s actions. So Vortex would have to wait until Overlord had time to go and supervise his labor.

Overlord’s engine purred softly with content as he gave one last look to the tiny rotary in the screen, and set to read a new log from the current datapad.

Half a day later the warlord stepped again inside the cell, before a panicking copter. Amazingly, the twitching and quick little gasps were not due to his presence alone this time, but because nothing was pinning the bits of plastic in place, which apparently was light enough that the vibrations of a triple-changer frame sufficed to make it flutter. Now the steps of such a frame….

By the time Overlord was three (particularly heavy) steps inside the room, the rearranged sheet looked more like just a lot of plastic bits thrown randomly across a room.

Vortex scrambled to attention with a dismayed whine. Overlord could see the light in that visor flickering towards the floor in quick frightened peeks.

“So…,” Overlord said, pausing to enjoy the sight of neck pipes contracting in panic, “I come to check on your progress and this is what I find. Explain to me what exactly have you accomplished here, soldier.”

The smaller mech’s knees wobbled, making him fold into a kneeling heap of trembling blades and hollering fans. “I- I, Overlord, Sir, the plastic- I was trying to, to- you had said-”

“I _know_ what I said, Vortex,” Overlord interrupted drily. He walked around the shaky mech, wrinkling his nose in distaste and shoving bits of plastic here and there. “What were you trying to do? Answer the question.”

“I… I was trying to fix it, Sir.”

“Why?” The phase-sixer’s vocalizer was completely flat, but a corner of those plush lips twitched up at the sudden stalling noises coming from the frame before him.

“To, er, resume the training? I didn’t want to waste your time waiting for, uh, more plastic to arrive? So I thought of using tape and, uh, discarding it would, would…” At this point Vortex’s words dissolved in staticky gibberish and eventually stopped.

The EM field that was lapping at the phase-sixer’s feet in silent appeal was puffed up with embarrassment. Overlord assumed the copter was becoming aware of just how absurd and desperate the whole reasoning sounded.

“And this is the best you could come up with?” Feel the disappointment of your superior officer, little mech. Your efforts are sub-par, however amusing. Tsk-tsk.

Upset systems whined and Vortex hunched, gaze firmly locked on the floor. “I’m sorry, Sir! I didn’t know what to do, I-

“When you said you’d make yourself useful, Vortex, I assumed you had at least a minimum idea of how to make that happen,” Overlord said quietly, so soft it was barely a purr above the roaring fans of the kneeling Combaticon, “Although, I see now that those promises were just empty talk to get yourself out of a hot spot,” the triple-changer baited.

He could see Vortex’s visor widen painfully, head making tiny shaky motions. That paling red stripe held such a desperate need to rebuke those words, to explain his version of events, but the copter held his vocalizer quiet.

Overlord smiled and mentally patted himself on the back. The fact that the insolent rust bag still couldn’t manage to answer things on the first go torked him a bit, but at least the part about not speaking when not asked _had_ stuck in the end.

“Well?”

“I-I'm not trying to be insolent, I promise, I'm just ignorant! Please, I- H-how can I show my gratitude, Overlord sir? Please, please tell me."

Overlord gave two steps and swiftly bent on one knee, his face inches away from the trembling ‘copter’s. “What use are you to the Decepticon cause if you can’t think for yourself, Combaticon?”

The triple changer sighed deeply. It was long, theatrical and full of venomous ‘Why do I bother, I wonder sometimes’. 

“Vortex, I like simplicity. I believe it’s a quality that applies wonderfully to problem solving. There is elegance in simplicity, you see. Now this?” he said, rustling the plastic pieces up and picking one up as it fluttered about, “is not an elegant solution.” The narrow optics watching Vortex brightened like incandescent metal. “You said you’d make yourself useful, Vortex. You pleaded for the opportunity to do so, and I believed you, you see? But if _I_ have to think for you, then you are just bringing unnecessary complications to an otherwise simple agreement. If I have to carry around the responsibility of having to do your thinking for you…, well, I am not sure it is worth the trouble.”

Overlord listened appreciatively as delicate components screeched in the vicinity of Vortex’s throat. Will anyone look at the little thing, trying to speak and not speak at the same time. He could see the tiny movements of the terrified visor before him trying to move away, but held in place by his own gaze. It warmed his spark.

The triple changer rose, patting Vortex’s helm once and making the mech flinch violently backwards in the process.

“My expectations regarding you, though, have never been that high to begin with,” he drawled in a bored voice. “My patience is not limitless, but I guess I can spare some time to,” one huge and waved vaguely in the air “Oh, I don’t know, assign you tasks... Until you manage to get that brain module of yours up to speed again, hmm? I have been tasked with reintroducing you to being a productive member of our army, after all, even if I have to deal with your complete inadequacy.”

The gentle retracting of mortified rotors greeted the statement

“Do you understand what I just said, Vortex?”

“Yessir!”

Overlord took one step back to look at the mech in his entirety. Vortex stood to attention rigidly. The triple-changer watched him expectantly, waiting. 

Then he started seeing it, the tiny little unconscious movements of a frame very slowly setting systems to idle. He had been expecting this. It confirmed his earlier assessment of what Vortex’s eroded mental landscape must be looking like by now.

The mech was simply terrified of initiative. It was a hundred and eighty degree turn from his reactions when he’d been a newcomer. A mech always so eager to fight back, and once fighting back was proved useless, still a sharp blade of a mind attempting to wedge itself into the cracks of his system, ready to push, lever and break.

The bedraggled EM field of the ‘copter tiredly projected gratefulness, and Overlord found himself huffing with impatience.

Yes, good. That spiteful little rust eating Combaticon that had been sent to him hadn’t been useful, but this new version wasn’t of much use either.

Overlord did pride himself on work well done. As entertaining as it would be to hand this perfectly loyal mech back to his unit just to listen to Onslaught’s clogged engine noises, Megatron might not be as pleased with a soldier that collapsed completely as soon as the orders stopped coming--

The triple changer stepped backwards turning slightly to leave, and the smaller engine before him whined softly and leaned forward slightly, as if he had internal components tied with a string to the larger mech.

…. However amusing it might clearly be.

Overlord turned instead to lean against the door frame. “Vortex, I hope you realize that if _I_ have to go through the trouble of assigning you tasks, then your performance needs to compensate for the time you are making me lose. Am I making myself clear, soldier?”

“Yes, Overlord, Sir, crystal clear.” The mech was vibrating again now, but with eagerness rather than anxiety. Primus, it was so sad.

“Very well. You will begin by finishing this marvelously stupid idea of yours,” he said, flicking a bit of plastic close to his feet. “Fill a supply request form 34-P for tape. I assume you aren’t under clocked enough to have erased your form database, yes?”

The light receptors in the red visor flashed as the mech clearly made a quick internal inventory. “I have all the files, Overlord, Sir.”

“Good.”

The hiccup and purr of a mech suddenly basking in officer approval died a quick death when Overlord leaned forward to look directly into Vortex’s visor. “If I remember correctly, there is a list at the beginning of the form. I believe ‘tape’ does not appear in it… I assume you understand what I am referring to when I am pointing this fact out, yes?” His optics crinkled at the edges with amusement.

To Overlord’s delight, the smaller mech’s EM field flashed with anger. It was so quick he might have thought he had imagined it if he hadn’t been hoping to crowbar a reaction out of the Combaticon.

Then a little dancing pattern of light flashed in Vortex’s visor and the rotary flinched slightly.

_You shall not think ill of your superior officer_ , said the code. Overlord could almost read it in subtitles bellow Vortex’s suddenly pained visor.

“Yes, Sir, it means it is classified as non-essential equipment. It requires written justification, signed by an officer.”

“Indeed.” Stepping back, the triple-changer plucked the data-pad he had stored before out of a pocket. He took a minute to erase the contents of the device, and tossed it unceremoniously at Vortex’s fumbling hands.

“Bring it to me when you are done,” was tossed along, as the hulking mech turned to leave.

“And Vortex?” The pale, wide visor fixed on him, “I will check that your justification is, how can I put it… comprehensive enough. Do make an effort.”

When Overlord left the room, the last thing he saw was Vortex looking at the data-pad as if it was the most wonderful thing his optic receptors had ever had the pleasure of ogling. His fingers were catching and releasing the little protective lid that covered the pad’s data port.

As he returned to his quarters, Overlord wondered idly about gestalts again, about how desperate for a connection did a mech had to become to be looking forward to plugging into the most basic piece of equipment any rust bucket in the universe could own.

He wondered if Vortex might require a more guided reintroduction to social interactions. It seemed quite possible that as soon as the mech was back to base he’d fritz the first time he received an intercom call.

Overlord chuckled to himself when he remembered the sight of a shaky thumb tracing around and around the rim of the port, and he wondered if Vortex would go as far as writing routines for, say, the pad to answer when pinged.

Too bad he’d have to give it back soon.

.

.

.

.

.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last part that was written properly, and it's only a fragment of chapter 21.  
> See notes on previous chapter

**0 0 Part Twenty-One 0 0**

Vortex watched attentively the wiggling of fingers as they tap danced on the data-pad’s surface.

He actually liked this part of his day. Days, in plural. There have been many days like this one by now. Oh, so many.

It might had been a complicated thing to admit to himself at another time, but the warped bits of his mind that didn’t answer to himself anymore had approved, so embarrassment had quickly evaporated. Now there was the sensation that he might have once cringed at such a display of internal aft-kissing, but he couldn’t care less.

He eagerly waited for the tapping to end, when Overlord’s disdainfully bored look would punch him in the software, and then, _then_ -

The huge hand unexpectedly dropped the data-pad and he had to shoot forward so it wouldn’t hit the floor.

Vortex scrambled back into place with a grunt, shaking his head slightly. 

It was ok, it was alright. He was moving without orders, but the data-pad was _his_ \- Nononono, the data-pad was _Overlord_ ’s property, so that made it ok, it was what his officer would have wanted. He was actually going above and beyond what was required, so he could save his officer’s belongings. This was, actually, a surplus of good soldiering. Yes.

The punishing code stopped cold before pain could expand beyond a light pinch to his brain-module.  
He was getting better at it.

Rationalizations, circumventions… It wasn’t so different from the earlier days of the loyalty program, except he was trying to convince his software he was doing what it wanted while _knowingly_ doing what it wanted. That was definitely different. 

The red visor turned up to see Overlord was sporting the kind of crinkly optics that meant ‘I am internally congratulating myself’. It made his tank churn, but whether it came from dull anger or the glee at almost-approval, he didn’t bother to find out. At this point in his existence he was pretty sure the both were so intertwined they might as well be the same thing.

With a distracted pat to the his helm- almost managed to keep his systems from hiccupping this time, _almost_ \- Overlord left the room, to do whatever it was that his commanding officer did while he spent the day doing… things.

Lots of things. Random things. A variety of tasks listed neatly in the [not-his] datapad.

It had become a routine, and maybe that would have been blissfully dull and predictable if the list hadn’t been written by one particular nasty triple-changer- _which was his officer, and not a horrible creature at all, since-officers-are-to-be-respected_.

Yes.

Vortex listened attentively until he couldn’t hear Overlord’s clomping steps anymore, and then glanced at his chores apprehensively.

[1. Drone maintenance.] Good, that was pretty straight forward.

[2. Dust entrance door speakers and microphone.] Huh, ok. That sounded strangely simple, until he remembered the peculiarities of said door programming with a sigh. That made more sense.

[3. Repaint landing pad markers.] More straightforwardness yet again, thank Primus in heaven.

[5. Bring base furnace back online.] Well there's...no fuel but boxes...can he burn the boxes? Is that allowable? He’d see if there are enough- wait.

Anxiety crept slowly up his back struts as he reread the last two items several times.

What was [4.]? Why wasn’t there a [4.]? His officer wouldn’t have made a mistake, would he? Knowing Overlord, most likely not, so it _must_ be something… Maybe [4.] didn’t need spelling? _Was he supposed to already know what it was???_

Vortex’s visor brightened wildly as the downward spiral of desperation continued for a minute, until he managed to calm himself down enough to finish the list.

Which continued with two other items:

[6. Improve perimeter fence.]

[7. Pebbles.]

Vortex’s rotor hub started vibrating.

Nothing ever improved.

This was exactly why routine in this Pit of an asteroid… planetoid, whatever the frag it was, was an exercise in fragging agony. Every day, there was something. A task he ought to do that wasn’t unachievable so much as incomprehensible without context or explanation.

He looked at the list again hoping against all hopes that the missing [.4] had magically written itself.

And also there were those.

Semantic traps, grammar glitches, suspiciously placed typos… small little things that would have been just stupid, inconsequential errors any other time. Right now, though, those had been written by _\--His Superior Officer--_ Overlord, and there was nothing the mech did that was stupid or inconsequential.

 _Nor an error_ , he admitted grudgingly, without even having to be prompted by his internal rust-sucking code.

All of which meant he had to figure out what it was Overlord pretended of him. If possible, before the terror and splitting headaches crippled his progress to an agonized crawl, which wasn’t the end of his attempts, but rather the point where his brain module also punished him for loitering while on duty. About then was when things took a turn for the worse and generally ended up in desperate bargains with his own code and hard reboots for hours.

Vortex made his way through the labyrinth of corridors looking for the drone storage and keeping an optic out for anything that could be used as paint. This brought the tiniest of pride to his visor.

At least a he had managed a while ago to make his coding understand that not doing the list in order meant he could work on it more efficiently. It was a pittance of an achievement, but hey, at least he was delaying the panic for the last possible moment. Always a win these days.

He turned a corner and a deep sigh escaped his vents. There it was, the small room filled with the fueling drones.

The interrogator lingered for an instant on the door, hungry visor taking in the rows of silent shapes. Only three of them looked like they had been used recently, and he remembered them. Oh Primus, yes he did.

They were not alive. He understood this perfectly, but nothing so intellectual was going to derail the sudden, savage need the gestalt code dunked his brain module in. They looked mechanic enough, and they could move if he ordered them too and they _had plugs!_ He could link up to them, and dig in their circuits and, and-

Vortex startled and pulled is hand away as if it had burned when he realized that he had inadvertently approached a drone (this was Smudge, a helpful processor provided) and had been slowly caressing its plating.

Then immediately continued to do so, because… because, well- frag it! It felt good, and made the ache sting a bit less. Also, this was probably the least cringe-worthy thing he’d done in what felt like the last century he’d been living in this horrid place, so he damn well was going to pet stupid drones if that meant he could have a crumble of satisfaction.

Of course that lasted all of two minutes until he remembered that good soldiers didn’t waste time when there were tasks they should be doing. Also good soldiers didn’t grumble when they realized this, _and didn’t kick the drones they were supposed to be maintaining in the first place._

The copter grabbed his helm and grunted as he mentally apologized to the universe at large for his transgressions, and set to the task at hand, this time letting his thoughts fall in a shape that felt more like a mech being eager to do his job, which he was, after all.

At least this particular task was deliciously monotonous and simple. Pick drone, plug in, check code, check hardware, respond accordingly if anything was wrong, unplug. Rinse and repeat.

It gave him precious minutes in where he could experience the sweet release of having a clearly defined purpose and a direction. Minutes free of internal punishment and anxiety, in where his internal code was aware that he was already doing something for the betterment of himself as a soldier and the Decepticon cause.

And through those precious minutes of something vaguely resembling inner peace, Vortex looked at himself.

He plunged inwards, furiously analyzing as much of his own thoughts and actions as he could, very much in the same way he dissected one of his interrogation subjects. He tried to piece together why the code had required what of him at what time, and poured endlessly on what little feedback he had been given, in hopes that he could find a pattern to _approval_.

The hand that was carefully picking the dirt off a drone’s jammed axle twitched minutely. The word alone had sent an eager shiver up his spinal strut, which got cut as fast as it came because _what about pebbles, though?_

He bent down to his task, rotors trembling mildly in a well known dread. Not thinking about that right now, nope, not yet. Pick drone, plug in, check code, check hardware, everything was fine, unplug.

Approval. Yes. That was all there was to it, really. He needed to understand where this was slag-show was going. Approval meant he had moved in the direction Overlord had wanted him to go, and by now that clearly was his only ticket out of this Pit, _and of course a pleasure in itself because it would in time please his superior officer._

The rotary left the inner prodding and the drones behind as he headed towards the building’s only entry point.

His visor squinted at the memories… that slagging door, Primus, how could he hate an inanimate object so much. At least he wouldn’t have to repeat the exercise in frustration that had been getting in. Not that _that_ mattered a lot, seeing as he seemed to have a decent chunk of his processor exclusively dedicated to relive that day.

 

[MISSING SCENE]

 

Now, the land markings presented the first problem.

He had a fairly good grasp of the whole base by now, and he was completely sure there wasn’t any paint anywhere to be found.

The first pangs of aching software in conflict started as his processor gently begun to point at all the ways in which he was failing his superior officer by not being able to complete such a simple task. If there was no paint, it must be because he had not been able to anticipate this particular need, and if he couldn’t provide it himself, then he should have pointed the necessity out to Overlord for him to order more paint as needed, so essentially both the state of disarray of the landing pad _and_ the lack of paint where, in fact, things he should have taken care of way before this point in time, which is what his superior officer would have wanted, but none of it had been done, and at what size exactly does a rock stop being a rock and becomes a pebble? And when was it small enough that it was sand instead? Should he classify all the substrate in the planetoid in the pebble/not-pebble categories? _And maybe [.4] was a code? What-code-used-4-elements-_

The Combaticon found himself where the first reboot of the day had left him, crouching on all four by the helipad. A pulsing processor ache was making gentle waves of static scroll down his HUD.

He gingerly looked up his last thread of thought before the cache has been forcibly purged and winced.

Yes, there’s no paint. Understood. Now was time for creative thinking, not hurling oneself at strut-breaking speed at the Pits of despair. Maybe he could just open an energon line and hope he didn’t pass out before he traced everything over? Oh, what about maybe pebbles?

The copter shuddered and tried to shoo the recurring inquiry off.

Self preservation protocols sternly argued against the energon solution, so, after circling around the argument of ‘how actually necessary was there to be paint in a repainting process, when what you were aiming at was just the lines to be seen’ he settled for just etching and scratching the half erased lines until the pattern was clearly recognizable. The helipad was meant for helicopters to land. He was a rotary frame and he could see it, ergo, it was good enough.

The nagging, anxious feeling of having done a half-afted job followed him through the door as he went back inside, but he had gotten so used to it by now that vague anguish was closer to default than anything else.

[END OF FRAGMENT]


	22. Ending Outline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the outline of the rest of the fic, written both by Bibliotecaria_D and me.
> 
> It's at points mixed with things that have already happened, and a few out of order details, but it gives a good idea of where the story went, and there are a number of very small scenes at the end that flesh the ending out.
> 
> I thought that posting this would be better than not posting anything at all, so that everyone that had been following this story gets to at least know how it ends, even if it's not properly written down.
> 
> This fic was quite a ride.

After a couple days, Vortex scrapes up just enough courage to ask how long he’s going to have to be trained.

His initial grovel-grovel is him asking sidelong how much longer Overlord will keep him.

Vortex: [grovel grovel]

Overlord: Hmm? Did you want something?

Vortex: ..!

Overlord: I'm sorry, I'm having difficulty translating your words from lowly rust-eating peon into an actual request.

Vortex: [grovel?]

Overlord: It appears I shall need to discuss your training with Shockwave when I place a call for a resupply.

Vortex: [shriiiiiieeek]

Overlord: No?

Vortex: [no no no no not necessary no really]

Overlord: Ah, so you CAN be coherent and well-mannered. Hmm. Perhaps a test. YOU shall call Shockwave and demonstrate how a Decepticon soldier properly addresses a superior officer of his rank.

Vortex: [inhales his own vocalizer]

Overlord: Here's a list of what I require. I'll be watching, of course.

Vortex: [whimper]

Shockwave: ..? Vortex. [so flat]

Vortex: [the most uncomfortable of throat-clearings] Shockwave. S-sir. I'm, uh, calling to request a resupply drop.

Shockwave: [flat stare] You.

Vortex: [squiiiiiiirm squirm writhe indignation squeaking fear squirrrrrrm]

Shockwave: [beginning to be somewhat amused] I...see. Transmit this list. And how goes Overlord's work with you, Combaticon?

Vortex: [HUMILIATION] F-fine. Sir.

Shockwave: Elaborate.

Vortex: [Primus whyyyyyyyy] I'm...learning, sir. I've improved. [so not looking to the side where Overlord is lounging]

Shockwave: How so?

Vortex: [argleblargleaaaaagh] I -- I --

Shockwave: .....[waiting]

Overlord: Do add more of the plastic to that list, Vortex.

Vortex: [wilting -- disobedient 'copter is so very sorry, too late but very sorry] Y-yes, Overlord sir.

Shockwave turns it into a discussion of how Vortex’s discipline affected the rest of the team

transmits the video of Onslaught dropping his dignity to plead with Megatron.

[reasonable argument reasonable argument convince convince] [glance at time] [FUCK] [pleasesirbelenient!]

the idea of Onslaught losing all his composure in front of a 'You are dirtying my floor with your knees' Megatron is most interesting

Shockwave should passes on Onslaught’s “report” of Vortex’s gratitude as well

Overlord tells Vortex to thank Shockwave for suggesting the discipline

After failing test with Shockwave, Astrotrain comes with the resupply, and Vortex helps the drones unload him.

"So...uh, how's it going? I mean, Onslaught asked me to report how you -- "

"It's fine."

"That's it? You want me to tell him -- "

[extremely nervous glance] "Look, I'm not supposed to speak with you. It's fine, alright? Just go."

"You're not supposed to -- aw, come on, like you care? Seriously, whaddya want me to tell Onslaught about -- "

"VORTEX. Return to work."

"Yessir, Overlord sir!"

And thus, Overlord's street cred soars to the heavens, and the collective Decepticon army becomes doubly scared shitless of him.

Astrotrain: cosmic gossip.

While Vortex is all 'FFFFUUUU" about disobeying orders to be silent around Astrotrain, Overlord notes how the bubbles are still trashed and no new bubblewrap had been sent in the resupply.

Oh, dear. Guess this won't work after all.

Oh, says Overlord. Oh dear. However shall I rewrap you? There isn't enough bubblewrap to rewrap you properly. Oh, well, back in the the Box...

a;ldkfajsdf, says Vortex. Wait, no, I can just -- stand here! I won't move, I swear! I won't move ANYTHING unless you tell me to!

hmmm, that could be an interesting transition to being unwrapped

Well, says Overlord as he ponders this novel concept. I suppose I can loosely tie a few of these scraps around your wrists and ankles, and balance a few pieces on your head and shoulders and rotor hub. If you move, they'll dislodge.

And I can just ask you if you've moved, after all.

Yes! sobs Vortex. Yes, please, what a wonderful solution! Please go with that! I won't move!

So Vortex stands there with his wrists, ankles, knees, and elbows so delicately knotted together with a single layer of fragile human plastic.

And doesn't move.

For however long Overlord leaves him. Even as the solitude tears him up inside and his hydraulics freeze up and it's friggin' horrible but he knows, he KNOWS it'll be worse if he moves.

Oh, but the drones! They move, and the air pressure wafts past poor Vortex, and bubblewrap is so LIGHT....

But he can't move to retrieve whatever piece drifts off his head or wherever, so he's just a quivering wreck of whimpering apology and begging to explain.

 -

The day Vortex graduates from the bubbles (eeee, I'm such a good 'copter! [wriggle wriggle glee]) Overlord hits him with that.

Vortex: oDo OH NO ohfragohsorryohno ohno

Vortex, what are you gonna DO for me now? [Graduation = think your own goddamn chores]

Flailing might happen, then he'd need to get creative, so I guess he'd go on a cleaning/repairing/aconditioning frenzy throughout all the base

we had mentioned the sensor net Overlrod had set around was kinda rudimentary, so maybe he can go upgrade it, and have Overlrod test it. Ee wouldn't go back until it was finished, perish the thought, so he'd have to be quite a long time away from the bubbles

instead of trying to be a good soldier to pass Overlord's various tests

now Vortex is going to be actively seeking ways to be better.

Instead of, "Don't displease him!" it's going to be "How can I please him??"

The eagerest of recruits.

When Overlord eventually starts him in on repairing things between training simulations, he can start nitpicking Vortex's mannerisms to frag with his head.

Because the 'copter DID displease him.

"A soldier doesn't blurt out words like that."

"Show your gratitude more gracefully."

"Don't look a superior officer in the optics."

"You can THAT standing at attention?"

Later when he's patching a wall somewhere, Vortex anxiously practices coming to attention.

meanwhile, Overlord is snorting energon out of his vents

somehow

He rehearses his words out loud to make sure his voice doesn't waver.

  
-

Every once and a while, Overlord just looks him up and down and sneers, "You're a disgrace."

And no explanations why.

Vortex dies a little every time.

He has an anxiety attack and spends his offduty time tearing apart his behavior and practicing his military drills in front of a mirror.

There is one thing to be said for Overlord: he doesn't require complex things to have fun.

-

The day after another drinking contest with Sixshot, he doesn't feel like getting out of bed

He opens the door, gives Vortex a Look Of Disgust, Why Do I Bother, You're Not Worth My Time.

Work done for the day, he goes back to bed.

it's enough for the daily mindfrag.

Vortex slaves all day.

The most terrified of little door pings the next morning.

"S-sir? O-orders, sir?...please?"

-  
especially since Shockwave had also sort of threatened Overlord if failure should happen

sounds like two birds with one stone: pounding some more officer interaction time into Vortex, and at the same time giving Shockwave some measure of how successful the whole thing is

Vortex, when he's earned being unwrapped and is being obedient, dares ask how long this continues on.

His initial grovel-grovel is him asking sidelong how much longer Overlord will keep him.  
-  


Overlord could hold him up by the rotors in front of the camera to show him off?

Miserable scruffed-cat Vortex.

Onslaught places a painfully polite call stiffly asking after the status of his teammate.

"Who, this?" [scruff]

Vortex: [miserable stare] [rotates slightly by his hub]

"No, I'm not done with him yet."

Vortex: [you spin me right 'round baby]

  
-  


Overlord has been away from Cybertron for a long time

So what if he gives Vortex a bunch of training simulations to graduate through, and a list of tasks to complete, and then LEAVES?

Every time Vortex's behavior trips the reset on the simulation, there's a near-audible *click* as it logs his misbehavior for Overlord's eventual return.

After a few days, Vortex is staring at the number on the simulation log going, "I am in so much trouble."

Extremely self-conscious of his own behavior from then on in the simulations.

How can he IMPROVE?

Overlord returns, Vortex meets him on the landing pad standing at attention while inside he's screaming like a fanbot and jumping up and down in total spazzing happiness.

Overlord checks the logs, turns around, and takes right back off again.

Next time he comes down, Vortex practically tackles him around the ankles proferring the logs going, "Nono, look, I improved! I did better! I LEARNED!"

  


[I'm such a good 'copter, yes I am, lookit how I did, such a good 'copter, I can be so good] [curls up at Overlord's feet] [purr purr?]

[pet me? please?]

[HAND!] [nudgenudgerubpurrpurrpurrrnudgenudge]

Overlord: That is not the proper behaviour of a soldier, Vortex.

[THE FLAILING]

-

Starscream is sent to retrieve Vortex.  He is highly doubtful of the success, and he and Overlord spend some time talking technical over Vortex’s head like he’s not even there.

“Has it been stress-tested?”

Overlord smiled slowly.  “One could say that, yes.”

Starscream’s smile was faster, but twice as sharp.  “We could conduct a test right now.  What would happen were I to, say, order Vortex join me in attacking you?”  Amused optics with a large dose of cruelty in them turned from Overlord’s mildly surprised expression to the Combaticon standing at attention between them.  “Vortex.”  

Vortex tensed, rotor blades quivering just slightly.  “Air Commander, sir,” he acknowledged.

“What would you do were I to give that order?”

Could he <i> _do_ </i> that?  Well, technically it was possible for him to attack Overlord, but with as many restraints as his coding had now, he didn’t <i> _want_ </i> to no matter how much he wished he could.  Yet Starscream’s petty whims, as he well knew, was never as shallow as they first appeared.  “I...”  He hesitated, combing his training for cues.  “Sir, I’m not sure if I can -- “

“You are aware,” Starscream lazily pointed out, sharp smile directed at the triple-changer behind Vortex’s rotor blades, “that I outrank all but Megatron himself.”

Tension snapped those blades in one violent shake before they went completely still.  Yes.  <i> _Yes._ </i>  Starscream outranked Overlord.  By chain of command, Vortex had to obey his orders over the triple-changer’s.  

The two officers had been exchanging acidic, almost hateful barbs since the Air Commander’s arrival.  If Starscream wanted to eliminate a potential rival, this was the time.  They outnumbered the mecha two to one, and Vortex had to obey.  And Vortex wanted to obey as well as had to obey as well as yes, yes, <i> _yes._ </i>

Vortex’s CPU ran through a checklist of his armaments and prepped them for immediate use, and his visor went dark crimson in murderous joy.  “Sir, I would --”

“Vortex,” Overlord’s rich voice interrupted.  “Once I broke Starscream in half, he would no longer be alive to outrank me.  Which would be a pity for you, if you stopped to think about it.”

Starscream’s optics glittered in fury as he glared over Vortex’s shoulder.  Overlord’s smug confidence smothered the ‘copter from behind.

What exactly was the likelihood of two Decepticons taking out Overlord?  Was it 110%?  Then it was too risky, because if there was even a chance of the triple-changer surviving, Vortex’s life would be over.

To his shame, Vortex’s rotor hub unlocked without a conscious command.  His rotor blades slicked down his back in visible, terrified submission even as every coded, conditioned, programmed bit of him told him in no uncertain terms whose orders he had to follow.  He slammed up against a rock of system-stopping panic, and hard code crushed him there.

His voice wavered a tiny bit when he made his vocalizer work.  “Air Commander, sir, with all due respect?  <b>Please</b> don’t give me that order.”

The glaring went on for a klik more, until the Combaticon’s ventilation cycles were panting in and out in audible fear.  Only then did Starscream’s lips twist into that sharp smirk again.

“Oh, you are good.  I’ll be sure to commend your work, but are you certain you don’t want to join the Earth mission?  The offer is still open.”

He thought he’d been terrified before?  Vortex’s mind reeled as his systems roared.  Overlord?  Following him to Earth?!  No no nonononono --

“Hmm.  A pity.”  The Air Commander gave an exaggerated sigh.  The ‘copter trembling between them made a faint sort of gibbering noise.  “I could name half a dozen Decepticons who could use this kind of discipline.”

-

When Vortex comes back to base, he is the clingiest but most resentful little 'copter ever.  Grabbing them first thing. "We are MERGING, No questions, GET WITH THE BRUTICUSIZING ALREADY."

And then Bruticus just sits there, squeezed into a cargobay or something. The other Decepticons come poke him, and he just shakes his head. "Bruticus cannot. Components will not split. Bruticus confused."

Megatron has to walk in and hold up a little square of plastic.

Bruticus shrieks and grabs his head and falls apart so fast it flings the other Combaticons into walls.

Vortex is left shaking in the middle of the room, meek and humiliated. "...I...apologize, Lord Megatron. I don't know...it's not...it won't happen again."

and it makes sense... he'll probably be completely high on gestalt-code activity at irst

-  
Megatron sitting on his throne while Vortex grumbles at his team and seems completely the same.  there's no way Vortex will be able to go back and act like nothing has changed before Mgatron

It was going to be a thin act to begin with.

He'll start out strong.

"Ha! Nothing wrong, I'll just be, um, hiding behind Blast Off."

Blast Off moves.

Vortex freezes, gulps, and snaps automatically to parade-ground attention because HE'S IN THE PRESENCE OF LORD MEGATRON.

Who lazily waves him forward.

Vortex is a good soldier, now, and immediately obeys. And he's SUCH a good soldier who knows a good soldier shows appreciation.

Sort of a, "Requesting permission to speak freely" kind of thing.

The most painfully public apology and expression of gratitude for this second chance.

Combaticons: [horrified] [terrible secondhand embarrassment]

EVERYONE gets second hand embarassment

even Ravage is cringing away in ew

Inside Soundwave

Nah, I think most of the Decepticons would find it hilarious.

Nobody likes Vortex.

Hmm, true, bu htere gets toa point when it's disgusting

because Vortex is not even suffering about it

He's Grateful

Megatron: [grin grin] Well. If only the rest of my soldiers recognized my power. Perhaps this little demonstration deserves a reward. [holds up bubblewrap]

The most rigid helicopter in the history of history

Vortex going COMPLETELY still and silent, every speck of attention on that sheet.

-  
He creeps into his team's berths and just sorta grits out, "I don't want to TALK about it, now HOLD ME."

Blast Off sitting at a table angrily because Vortex is wrapped around his leg under the table with his face stubbornly turned into the leg refusing to speak.

Sprawled in Brawl's lap.

Paying Swindle to cuddle him.

Vortex desperately cuddling with his team, but the only one he can pin down is Swindle -- but Onslaught tells him to stop, so he has to stop.Purchases cuddle-time

Limp pile of 'copter with his head in Swindle's lap, a cable connecting Swindle to Vortex but not the other way around, because all Vortex wants is to have his programing aware that another Combaticon is there.

Glazed-visor, purring engine, wrapped halfway around Swindle, mumbling incoherent answers to anything he's asked.

-  
I thought of Vortex having a little bit of bubblewrap tucked in his subspace

Overlord transferring him back to Megatron's control, and Onslaught getting plastic thrust at him after every successful mission. I DID GOOD I DESERVE A BUBBLE PLEASE AND THANK YOU

-

Megatron is going to get back SUCH a loyal, well-mannered soldier.

ifVortex will get second-hand prickling from other mecha's disrespect

"Brawl, shut UP. Frag, if Soundwave hears you..."

I foresee hysterics

lots of them.

"I didn't say it! I didn't say anything! It wasn't me!!"

They are all going to Get Into Trouble, for Not Addressing Officers Propperly

Vortex becomes the Combaticon's etiquettete police

only Onslaught is his supperior so how could he correct him

"I can't control them, sir! It's not my fault! You can't -- I mean, PLEASE don't hold me accountable for their behavior, I'm not in charge, please forgive them, I -- I'll try harder next time!"

Onslaught: Starscream's a bastard.

Vortex: ...!!!!!!!!

squiiiiiiiirm

Vortex: [puts head down] [stubbornly silent through the Combaticon bitchfest]

Onslaught: [all suspicious] Why aren't you saying anything?

Vortex: [very, very quiet] You shouldn't say that about a superior officer, sir.

Combaticons *holy shit what did they DO to him? Is it CONTAGIOUS????*

-

[curls up on gestalt]

[all the pathetic little engine purrs]

While he's still all "Ffft! FFFFT! Rowr!" at them.

Swindle figures out the secret. He sidles up and pets Vortex's rotor hub. "I'll let you recharge in my berth tonight if you pick up a shipment in Saudi Arabia for me~"

"NO' ohmyPrimus wantwantwant "I'm not some sort of addict!" want want please please cuddles all the cuddles touch touch touch

"...how big of a shipment."

and the question is only out tehre to save himself some sort of tiny bit of dignity xD

Vortex makes those little blissed out noises halfway between a sigh and a whimper when somebody finally relents and lets him crawl into their lap.

He's all quiet while the gestalt program is happily syncing, but every once and while he'll let out that tiny noise.

Like a dreaming kitten.

Meanwhile, the rest of the Combaticon are avoiding him like the plague.

He tries to be violent and demanding like he was before, getting the contact he craves via force, but it turns out that this isn't conducive to the kind of contact his gestalt links want.

Swindle: NO. For the last time, NO. I don't LIKE getting fragged so hard it hurts.

Vortex: But...

Swindle: Fine. Y'know what, fine. Let's frag if it'll get you to leave me alone.

Vortex: [so totally doesn't want to be left alone] Um. What...I mean, er...

Vortex: suddenly master of foreplay and king of the afterglow.

-

Vortex and the Autobots trying to interrogate him by holding the bubbles over his head.  Conditioning (bubbles = officer = want to obey) VS loyalty programming (Autobot =/= Decepticon!  Must not obey!) torture.

glitching for everyone

glitching for Vortex on conflictive information

glitching for Prowl on account of the wtf

Vortex is tough and snarking and turning all his tricks on the Autobots to break their heads

glitching for Wheeljack trying to find out how the bubbles work too

and then Prowl comes in with the sheet of plastic and a skeptical expression, and Vortex is holding onto his composure by his fingertips.

Prowl leaves, and Vortex goes and burrows into the wall closest to the other Combaticons' cells.

"Onslaught...Onslaught, we have a problem..."

-  
The first time Vortex really screws up once he comes back. The FEEEEEEAR that he'll be returned to Overlord's control.

Everyone's expected unrepentant casual Vortex lounging around as per usual; they get twitchy scared little 'copter groveling for his withheld bubble.

I'm looking forward to Onslaught acute second hand embarrassment

Ahhhh, Onslaught's second-hand embarrassment witnessed over a comm-call to Shockwave.

Megatron makes sure to summon him and congratulated him on his "very cooperative teammate, such an improvement, well done."

massive finger in sore

End by Vortex noticing Breakdown wandering loose, and makes himself leave him the frag alone?

oh, that would be a nice wrapping

full circle for Vortex

\--------------  


 


End file.
